Musings on the Mac
When a girlie grabs the blue and orange box of watery fake cheesey noodles, the internal sentiments of a wonky woman is this. This lady is craving some sort of fake compassion from the cruel cruel world. Like maybe your ideals of self is crumbling, but your hair is still shiny and life will be okay? It’s like the feeling we all got when our mother gave us a compliment although it was an outright lie to make us what? Feel something? It’s a waxy coating of falsified comfort, when we can’t seek that ease and sensation from life itself.  
Why don’t we just buy Annie’s in this case scenario? Obviously some untapped well of self loathing that suddenly started leaking out. It’s mostly because we want to crawl into the blinding color palette of neon pink and lime green colors, the colors of high fashün, uh doi, and hell we thought that was tres chic, don’t forget about the posters of early 2000’s teenage boys that now look like the current hot-mulletted-toting-tatted up ENBY barista at your local coffee shop that when they smile at you, you question your existence. That reassuring feeling that that queer sensation burning within you hasn’t dissipated because you’ve unintentionally assimilated over time but, I digress. We go for Kraft because it’s an easy fix, the easiest choice. A choice that makes us chickies feel shitty when we feel shittier and isn’t it delicious, to just, I don’t know relish in that security of lying to ourselves that everything will be okay? Like we can be our mom’s for fifteen minutes as we inhale this chemically carb induced serotonin boost and just lie to ourselves that everything is going to be okay.  

wonderings on watermelon
Watermelon and…I can’t think of something quippy about women and watermelon, no it’s on the tip of my tongue. 
Oh right, big fucking titties. 
Do women truly want big tits? In theory? Sure. Actuality. No. Who wants to carry unnecessary weight? Wait. Aren’t we equipped to do that without the plethora of sacks of fat dangling from our pecks? Yes, that is a disgusting way to describe the two things that make us identify as a woman but, that’s what they are. Is it worth carrying all that extra pressure to take a bite of maybe a sweet bite of fruity flesh? Yes yes yes, when someone you care about starts to admire your watermelons, sure it feels great but how many times can that be the only thing they see and not that it’s actually dragging you down…
Remember when Baby carried the watermelon and got nervous in front of Patrick Swayze in Dirty Dancing and all she could do was be an awkward twat, what happened? She carried the idea of an ideal summer, and then she had to be the voice of reason to save the chick who got the botched abortion. ALL BECAUSE SHE “CARRIED A WATERMELON”. We want to acknowledge that we can do it. So we do it. And we think it’s glorious? To be the bearer of all burdens but, when is enough enough? Truly. Drop the watermelon. Fuck the watermelon. 

French Vanilla Cake Mix feelings
Why do we crave this type of fucking refined simplicity in our lives? It’s probably because the walls are crumbling down on your current reality. Thinking if you pick a flavor profile that could never confuse your thousands of taste buds, you’ll be golden Ponygirl. Wait back up, would the French be offended that Betty Crocker is using this tantalizing turn of phrase for some chemicalized creation called vanilla? Ladies. You’re being bamboozled by the concept of classical bougieness. This purchase is clearly not made for a person who’d want an instant emotional release. This is made for people who want their emotionality to build and rise and fester and build and rise and fester and build and rise and fucking fester. Get what I’m saying? You’re into the mishegas of your own psyche going in whips and peaks of mental gymnastics all while this golden delicious carbohydrate reaches its full potential. You want to break down every beat and every moment you ever did to get to this bizarro spot in your life. Oui, when you grab this, you want to feel luxurious in your ratty sweatshirt and your pants with an ever growing rip in the crotch while you sob into a sheet pan. Did you bother buying Betty Crocker Chantilly Styled Icing to add to this wannabe lavish experience? 
You were too concerned for this classic concept that might have fixed your life and now all you have is this constant steam of tears to moisten your un-iced baked treat. Did you think when you were shaking your principal’s hand at your high school graduation, planning your glorious unscarred life, with dreams of traveling the world going to places like…dang…I don’t know fucking France and eating actual patisseries instead of being in hysterics on the floor with a pan of a half eaten knock off  version of the future you thought you’d have.