Use My My My Imagination

I stood for a long time in my kitchen, torn, staring out the window at the small lawn, the parking lot, the trees opposite. Twilight softened the moments between breaths as I tried and failed to think. The kitchen disappeared. My yoga pants and t-shirt that read "I like chicks (with big dicks)" disappeared. Everything fell away. I was dressed in black, wearing a maroon beret and speaking in a voice rough and gravelly like Charles Aznavour, because if you're going to have a cinematic existential crisis, you've still got to rock it so old school you fart Rive Gauche dust.

Tata: Le sigh!

I could only think of one philosopher to quote in my hour of desolation.

Tata: "While a void is expressed in this recipe, I am struck by its inapplicability to the bourgeois lifestyle. How can the eater recognize that the food denied him is a tuna casserole and not some other dish?"

Then, in my torpor, I observed movement on the lawn, which was merely a bourgeois construct and not cool and delicious. I went from Aznavour to Electric Youth in no seconds flat.

Tata: Bunnnnnnnnnnnnnnny!

Genuine lapin.

Like! It's baby bunny season.

This bunny would fit in my hand, which is half the size of yours.

Le sigh. I look great in a beret and angst.