Smells like fried marshmallow.

Now Nirvana has come on. Kurt Cobain is singing "Smells like Teen Spirit." Wondering about the meaning of this, I pried into bed lady's head. I see a container that says "Teen Spirit". Ummmm, well ok then.

Did she know Kurt? No, but the man that is here knew Kurt and his then wife Courtney Love briefly. He had Kurt's sweater, but she doesn't know what happened to it. I should hope she asks and I find out.

I don't have much to think about, now I'm terribly focused on Cobain's sweater. I am not worried about if he was the voice of a generation, or gone too soon. I am not exactly complex enough to think more than,"Whatever happened to the sweater KEVIN!! had?"

I wonder if the lady in the bed enjoyed the 90s. It seems she watched "Melrose Place", but is that truly enjoying the decade?

What was she like then? Did Yanni like Nirvana? Did Kurt Cobain ever listen to Yanni?

say no to graNOla

Today is promising. Bed lady is playing "90's Alternative" music on Pandora. Her cat is named Pandora. The fat cat.

I am listening to Weezer. I am trying to spin myself under the bed. It may not be Yanni, but it is a break from monotony.

Oh geez! The fat cat just came in here. What does that thing eat? I know it wasn't the chihuahuas, as they are seemingly alive. I mean, can I truly state they are not zombie chihuahuas? I don't ever wish to mislead.

Smashing Pumpkins now. Oh, if I had been rotting (I'm melodramatic, I'm just dried up) cake in the 90s! He sounds like a love angel, this Billy Corgan.  I wish he ate me.

His beautiful sounds make me want to be angsty rotten cake.

I used to be moist cake from dominos,
Now I'm just dried up and forgotten.

What is a round cake piece supposed to do?
I want to smile,
 But I have no face.

In the world of desert I'm a disgrace
Uneaten and dried up
 Not even crunched by an errant pup.

But as I say, I'm a professional writer!

pie

My goodness. I was able to get into the mind of the smallest dog. Things there were far less cluttered. she had been pretty much thinking about puppy food.

Her thoughts were kind of like moving images, but the colors were perhaps muted. She had heard in NYC a police dog is considered a police officer. She wants to be an officer of the law. She wishes her human could take her to drug sniffing classes.

The simpleton dog is a 3 pound chihuahua. I guess she could end up bitter and jaded if she ever found that out!  Two minutes into her thoughts, and it was clear she believes she is perhaps a German Shepherd, or even some kind of wolf dog!

Creme Brûlée

It is an early hour, here where I am. During the middle of the night I found myself in the lady on the bed's head really.

Things in there were  messy and chaotic. All kinds of boxes with labels. I thought,"Oh! This seems a bit fun. I can read her mind." I figured on some pretty interesting documents in the boxes.

Alas, there were locks. They had combinations. If she knew them herself, I could probably steal them, but it seemed she must not know either!

It was then I saw a conveyer belt. On the belt were different deserts coming out one by one. The deserts immediately flew into boxes, and were stacked up. Each box had a label, like "Cookies and Cream Pie".

It was then that I needed to focus on being under the bed. What kind of depraved mind is boxing up deserts off a conveyer belt?  I lacked understanding, so I left. As a desert myself, I was a bit sensitive to this wild scene in her head.

Back under the bed,  I could focus on the two dogs in the room.  The dogs were sleeping.  The lady  was making no sounds. This was a bore. But wait! the ceiling fan was on. The whirring noise was always a delight, and reminded me of the musical stylings of Yanni.

I wondered if  Yanni categorizes deserts in his head. If not, what does he categorize? Perhaps the specific chirping sound of every type of bird, and the sounds of the waves of each ocean.

Again, I felt this affinity for Yanni, and longed for the music to return.

Ice cream. You Scream.

 Oh dear.  Today the hobbled bed lady wanted "Cajun French Fries" from "Five Guys."
 I could hear her thinking of how much she loved the spicy seasoning on those potatoes of love.

Not my words, no. The man on the premises, I think his name may be, "KEVIN!"  had no designs on retrieving the seasoned fries,

The website pretended it delivered the stuff, but pretend doesn't bring a lady her potatoes, it seemed.

She had turmoil. I felt it in the way she turned on her music. It was Yanni, some new age sounds. She wanted to relax, she couldn't take a walk around the corner for the potato treat she probably shouldn't have.

You don't need to be a piece of withering lava crunch cake to know French fries may not be the way to go if you are unable to  move around.

The Yanni music was fantastic. My soulless puck of a self felt whole. Who is this Yanni? Oh, if I could be under his bed, listening to him create his beautiful world peace noises.

But I suspect Yanni would have had his act together enough to have eaten me. Wait, I bet Yanni does not order from Domino's pizza. Or does he? I would like to know. Does he eat chain pizza? has  he ever?  What was it like the first time he saw or tasted pizza?

Oh no. Why does Yanni fascinate me? Yanni, there is a piece of cake under a bed in NYC that may be quickly becoming your number one fan. I wish you had eaten me.

She has two dogs on the bed now. The smaller female dog engaged in sexual congress much of the evening with a poor pink rhino. Like the mauling of them isn't bad enough. The sex and violence here is not the easiest thing to bear witness to.

The other dog is probably digesting that piece of peanut butter fudge I might have loved. because of that creep dog, I am obsessing over Yanni.

I should be under his rock.

wonky vanilla bean

The room has been silent, except the whir of a ceiling fan. The animals have not been in here,  except the stuffed, possibly deceased ones the animals maul like ferocious jungle tigers.

I can read her mind. The lady on the bed. I am now fairly sure I am picking up on her thoughts. I need to hone in on it better. So far I hear these words, over and over:

"Karma karma karma karma, karma chameleon
You come and go, you come and go
Loving would be easy if your colors were like my dream
Red gold and green, red gold and green."

What is this? Why does it repeat? Is this a sign she is more mad than I suspected? I probably should not try to zero in on these thoughts better. I do not like them. I'm stale cake, I have enough to deal with. Please get the animals so I can hear their paws pattering, and even the noises inside their round bellies. Prefer.

Chocolate Sauce

 So, the lady that is hefty from "meds" had ordered a pound of fudge that was made by Monks. She seemed to feel the Internet order made her more a humanitarian, than just an ever expanding human.

If  her size equated with world peace right now, wait... I know so little about that. I'm also being mean and maybe snarky. I hope I'm not decaying.

A small piece of the Monk made fudge fell and ended up by my side. Peanut butter flavor. She was pretty. Golden, kind of glistening, looked soft and pliant.

I'm assuming this was a female beige fudge ball. I am male cake, and I am pretty sure I'm into girl deserts.  Don't suggest otherwise.  I was made at Domino's pizza, aren't they like, conservatives?*I mean, why would I know that?

Anyway, oh she could have been my girl. Me hard and dry, she, soft and dewy.  But then a nose appeared. A long snout, that pain in the cake ass called "Chester", the so called "good dog". Slurp! A massive pink tongue scooped her up, she was done for.

You murderous freak! She could have been my friend here. If I am a sentient being, perhaps fudgie was, too. Oh wait. Maybe you're a dog that just likes peanut butter. Maybe I'm dried up,tasteless, used up cake. Oh dear God, will I ever sort things?

Nobody will ever eat me. But it's ok. I'm a professional writer
*
Snopes and Dominos Pizza, My Homeland  linky wink