Dear Toast,
You are the best: with cheese, you are dinner; with jam, you are dessert! Of course, without butter, you aren't much; but you lead a double life under olive oil that is just as wonderful.
I begin today with bread, because I decided to begin my day that way, with bread. If consequences were cosmos, I'd eat bread every day, at all meals, and I would have a room full of flowers!*
I am all fired up on bread and words, because I am reading a lovely little book, a memoir that ignites my passion for the messy life we lead: Cary Grant's Suit.
Yes, I did say no more OWMW (ow-mao), but, this guy! I tell you, he's worth the transgression. But, I am not here today, to tell you to eat bread with all its charms, or to read old white men, with all their charms, I am here today, to say to all and sundry, that I feel very sad when I think of all the Things I Have Done in the Name of Self Loathing.
But, yes, this is all in the past; except, it isn't it, is it? I don't know that you could have convinced me that my actions were motivated by self-hatred. Because, you see, people that are terrible (like me) deserve all their punishment, and they don't ever get enough, and so they give it to themselves. Yes, this reasoning and sentence are head-ache inducing, certainly, but that is all part of the verdict, sentence, punishment. Which means, probably that my current self-loathing is extra clever and totally invisible to me, just like the old kludgy stuff was. Which means, that I will ask you, I will beg you not to do as I have done, but that I also understand, accept, and love you anyway, even if you can't stop doing the things you do to hate yourself.
