Pie

I've been rethinking my life, like usual, and I've been thinking about what truly makes me happy. I've been making pro/con lists in my head about everything and everything has so many cons except for on thing. Pie. I have a deep love for pie. I'm not even kidding. By belly is full of pie right now and I am content for once.

I don't want to make pie; I want to taste pie. I want to fill my mouth with all different kinds of pies from all around the world. I want to look at a pie and say, "Get inside of me." And the pie will because I said so. I want gorgeous people to put pieces of pie in my mouth and not get angry if I can't finish it or don't like it or ask for some water, because it's just pie.

The reviews I would write would all be positive, maybe a little sexual, and have underlining wit, because tasting pie is one thing, but writing about it is another. It wouldn't be to rate it, it would simply to describe its many qualities. Hundreds, thousands, millions around the world would welcome me to put their pie in my mouth. My blog would be pilled with pictures of pies, pictures of me eating pie, and discussions about pie.

Maybe love will find me and begin to outshine my love for pie so we would settle down in the country next to an elderly couple who own a cherry orchard and the man bakes cherry pies while the wife picks the not-so-perfect cherries because they don't believe in gender roles. They gift me a pie on the odd occasion and I eat it and enjoy every bite, but my pie days are over and my blog is virtually dusty.  


Our Christmas cards have me and my significant other wearing beautifully vintage sweaters with a pie shaped baby in my arms. Every year the joke does not get old. I send it to a lot of people, but with no return address so they know I'm happy, even though I have not seen them for many moons. 


And everything would finally be wonderful.


Everything is pie and nothing hurts.