I Get Hit By Cars.

                         I  get hit by cars,..strolling out through busy intersections,. pleasurably nodding my head to the oncoming traffic. I take joy in flashing my fluorescent windbreaker around town,. amidst the ever changing traffic lights and angry motorists. Upon arriving home, I walk through the back door entrance of my urban row home,. into the kitchen,.past the cellar door on the right hand side. I have a wide array of past times including Richard Simmons VHS,..Howie Mandel (stand-up),..dressing cornish hens up
in broadway attire,..and of course a bit of vintage Streisand to set the mood. Constructing moon orchids out of pouring melted wax over paper mache,. i'm quite fond of as well.
                        Bagels and lox,..salmon and rice cakes,.bananas well after the ripened stage,.chain fast food  restaurant bathrooms,.these are the delicacies I surround myself with. I also partake in wearing sweat pants to the unemployment office in the pouring rain. I'm an obese female of two hundred and fifty- five pounds. My reputation precedes me to say the least. I sweat profusely on a cool Autumn day,.this however does not exclude me from enjoying  a gigante mocha frappuccino with extra whip cream from the Starbucks drive- thru. Indulgence manifests itself in myriad ways,.sometimes as a curious odor permeating from my genuine pores, My aroma is meticulously mine,..this is (if you ask me) immaculate perfection. Every ripple displayed by my obtuse anatomy is beautiful in a godly way.
                      EBT card,..please guide me the way to the deli man,..deli man make me a dream,.use your wild hands to sculpt an
edible edifice,.create a work of cholesterol and taste sensory..one that consists of bread, meat ,
pickles, lettuce,.mayo and vinegar,...
Surprise me,. assemble an uncanny lunch meat extravaganza . Your hairnet stretched so tight behind the food line,..below the radiant incandescent light fixtures.
                    I shall take an italian hoagie home with me,..to consume beneath my night blanket at a cumbersome hour. The television on,.tonight I shall view "Leave it to Beaver" reruns,.I heard the station I love is airing a marathon. Passion is a piece of drowning lettuce,.as it slides from my busy dentures,.and onto the electric pillow case that shocks me as I initiate convenient rays of light with "The clapper".