My eyes open. I’m strapped to a chair in a strange room with my stomach missing.
Scratch that, this is my living room, my limbs only feel heavy in my recliner, and my stomach is still here, just empty. Why, why is my stomach empty? More importantly, can I fill it? I peel myself up off the recliner, its fabric a multitude of devoted hairy people all holding me up at the same time. Brown fabric. Bread is also brown. I make a mental note on my hand.
The kitchen is brightly lit, too bright to be of any use. I bury my head into the fridge, escaping the responsibilities of inhalation and exhalation. Better, cooler, darker. The womb of the kitchen, I have found it and in my search I will discover the secret to rebirth from this mortal coil. Father Time stands over me with his menacing clock but I will not let such a ticking distract me—this goal is far too important.
I pull open the doors and look over the shelves of food. Carton of milk? Too much work, too many dishes. A note that reads “For eating, enjoy. Love, Mom”. It’s attached to a sandwich in a plastic forcefield. Too easy, too little, no satisfaction. Nay there is a problem which must be solved here and no easy answers will satisfy the gaping inquiry in my gut.
Cold spaghetti. Gelatinous sauce. It’s disgusting. It’s perfect. It raises many questions. Do I want spaghetti? Does food have to be cooked to be food? Do I have to cook it again to then uncook it so it can be food again? I look inward for the answer to my leftovers question and the bigger question swallows the smaller and born is another; What vehicle?
I set down the spaghetti on the counter under the microwave. We all know where this is going. I look at the note I made earlier - brown fabric people - and it strikes me. SUB-SAHARAN RUG SMUGGLERS ARE THE MOST WHOLE PEOPLE ON PLANET EARTH. No wait, what I want is A SANDWICH. This is my pony whom I will ride to the sunset: Spaghetti Sandwich. Two pieces of wheat bread please and two sides of butter; don’t skimp on either.