My tale is atypical, tuneful, and difficult to digest. It’s about a jack-of-all-trades, whose wit is not matched letter for letter with sense. One day he will run out, long before me, because he bakes too many cake mixture cakes.
My jack-of-all-trades, who is mine in loose terms only, has mastered no trades at all, except maybe packet cookery and dealing. And that is not cards. We play games, sometimes, to shake the feeling of this fucking up and fucking around. It doesn’t shift.
I ask to cut the cake, but no. For now there is no wedding, no wedding photo, and no cutting the cake. I’ll cut you eventually.
(Originally published on Pindeldyboz)