white bread Tag


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Is it going to be blue or purple, this wall, or perhaps, a minty green?  Should I tile the bathroom, covering it in organized shines, or leaving it as is, a rustic plaster of diffused grey?  Those clusters, years of emotional settlements that are solidified in actual physical forms, are bothering me, a lot, and I want to dump them all away and start over, as if it could work both ways.  Did I mention these walls here where I stand, damn it, made of fucking concrete, are mockingly strong and defeating and apparently, impossible to drill through by whatever strength and tools I have left.  What’s happened?  I used to be able to drill through lots of things, now apparently, not anymore.  Now I can only paint shit over.  Maybe there’s nothing wrong with that, that it’s just life bitch, but the mirror that came to us from an obliviously happy time of my life from a wholesaler in Jersey City, broad, reflective and inescapable, is now helplessly laying against the ground, catching things ruthlessly from a low and unnatural angel, a woman standing with her head cut off.  The mere wish to just to get it 3 feet up in perspective, to frame things, once again, rightly, seems now both realistically and psychologically, difficult.  I have been dragging my own weight for months, defended no longer by excuses because they, if I had any, are peeling off by now like old paints, revealing the raw surface that has always been behind, staring at me only through a thin mask of pigments that I couldn’t even decide the color of.  Perhaps the problem is not the color.  Perhaps these walls, damn it these fucking walls… have something to say.  And I gotta listen… listen bitch… before moving forward.

Blue or purple, or perhaps, soon hopefully, a minty green?




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The Dreamiest of Dreamy Milk Toast


OH boy, do I have a sob story for this one. Well, not of me growing up with Hokkaido milk toast of course (If you love bread but don’t know what it is, I feel truly sorry. It’s the dreamiest loaf of toast you could dream up.). Those were only fond memories, VERY fond memories like – me standing in the bakery, staring and chuckling like an idiot at the milk toasts on the racks why because they were also smiling back at me, and couldn’t stop myself from poking them with my fingers – kind of memories. The sobbing part is how I got to successfully making them in my kitchen, which was a road paved with disappointments, heartbreaks and betrayals (supposedly-trusted recipes out there…how could you?). Let me just start by saying that on Sep 19th at 10:45 pm, a loaf of bread died of a gruesome death on my kitchen counter. And at 4:30 am the next day, another one followed.

This is how I killed them and atoned for it.


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