little house I used to live in

Let them eat a fucking enormous cake. According to the chief executive's web site, this monstrosity of dark chocolate and gingerbread weighs in at over three hundred pounds of sugary goodness and took over three weeks to make, meaning it was already stale before anyone was able to get as much as a bite out of the Lincoln bedroom. Which, I guess, makes the Bush White House more of a metaphor than an after dinner treat. It's as though spring was never waiting for us, no, it ran one step ahead as we followed in the dance, and then we abruptly changed to an even better metaphor (albeit one without a subject, but fuck grammar) about laundry where we noted that between the parted pages and were pressed in love's hot, fevered iron, like a strip-ed pair of pants. That's strip-ed, not striped, because striped pairs of pants are only worn by the lower classes, or buffoons, or girls with really big asses who don't seem to realize that this sort of fashion decision only aggravates their problems. So ultimately, the fudge White House is melting in the dark, all the sweet, brown icing flowing down. Someone left the cake out in the rain and I don't think that I can take it, cause it took so long to bake it and I'll never have that recipe again. Oh, no! Oh, no! No, no, oh no!! Sonofabitch was never meant to be eaten.