Hello, self-serving scrapbook, we meet again.

Someone is holding my hand in a sturdy grip over the burner and threatening to press if I look away, and every time I blink I get punched in the face. It's completely unneccesary; I'm internally ruining myself etiher way.

Frosted even.

I was cake once.

A prize on the counter top, all yours.

Now I'm drying on a shelf out of sight.
Useless even for croutons.