Letter to Mutton

Dearest,

On a day like today, who else could I write to, dear one? The condition I am in presently, with my stomach aching like someone has decided to keep opening and closing a door noisily within, is torturous. I am stuck in a terror-zone. And each bit of me is hurting, wanting to be home more than anything else, to my bed and blanket to be wrapped in a comforting peacefulness.

Mutton, you lecherous delicious meat, you exploit me massively and despite all the tall complains I keep returning to you like I were winning brownie points of good fortune. You have harmed me more than any alcohol ever has, and almost immediately at that, but do you notice the patronage I have for you, confronting your rate and rage? Believe me, I actually quite hate it that the mother only and pointedly remarks that I should leave you alone. Her tone is so demeaning to your fibrous stature. What does anyone understand of the taste you facilitate unless one truthfully loves you?

Day before last night, I overdid myself by having a platter full of you. I shouldn't have, Mutton. And through last evening only I know how much of you I consumed in the name of "tasting" you through various stages of cooking. Oh, and that! How I love cooking you. Your meaty promise marries my original recipe and together the celebration is one worth a show. I secretly also adore the steady followers my cooking of you has furthered upwards. 

But, once in a while, mothers do know it best, mutton. Yet I will not say a word against you lest her case builds up in ethics and logic. You are, like I slow-cook you, slow-killing me. Right at this moment the walls of my stomach feel like a ruined building marked with bullet-wounds of tempestuous fire. The walls are churning in pain. I have not been able to smile since morning. However, I cannot bring myself to say I hate you. The kilo and a half of you that I cooked last night will be enjoyed by healthier relishers tonight. I will be greedy in spite of all the pain and the overall bad day I am having to undergo, and maybe just have a piece of you. And be slightly happy, and greatly sad.

Nobody has ever written to you considering you dead meat. But not me. Here I was speaking so long, wishing you listened. I love you, hopelessly. Helplessly. Understand.

You are divine, show some mercy!

K.