Spring was not good for me. Then, I sweated 18,000,322 droplets of sweat throughout the summer. My Fall perspiration rate was not much less.
After a long, arduous springawinterautumn, finally, winter was arriving.
The chill in the air mixed with the onset of daylight savings time, made it the perfect environment for me to slip into the succulent bun. I slithered my unshaven legs one by one by one by one into its crispy layer.
My inclination for profuse, disgusting amounts of sweat, quickly moistened the bun-- enough to stretch it wide, to fit my spouse’s flat meat patty. My spouse slivered in as well, but, so opposite from me-- so dry. So, so, dry. My spouse took my liquids from me, like a therapist.
At first, I enjoyed being cooped up with my significant other who depended on me for nutrients and love. But eventually, I grew tired of providing all of the juice and the sauce. I exploded one day. I said to him, “Get out of my bun! why don’t you get some wetness of your own? Don’t come back until you do. Go to McDonald's, or to TGI Fridays. I don’t care. Find some good tasty grease for me. Then come back here and lube me up for once.
He left, and although he came back, he never did find the grease I was looking for-- a balanced amount of silk vs slime.
The winter was long, and my bun wet. But the cream never came and neither did I.