“Why are you taking your potatoes off your plate and putting them on the table? It’s kind of unsanitary. Really gross. Do you not like them?” mother dearest exclaimed to me at dinner tonight.

“They are really pointy, and I don’t know, but the box you made them out of had every letter a different color than it was supposed to be. I mean that never happens. Its just pointy, and my mouth tastes like poop when I think about it. I don’t know I feel like they are mad at me, or I am mad at them. I don’t know I am having a lot of emotions about these potatoes right now, can I just leave the table now? God Damnit, why couldn’t the P have at least been close to greenish. It had to be brown…brown is the color of 8 and I HATE 8 AND 8 HATES ME.” I proclaimed as I ran as far away from the kitchen as I possibly could.