“I should have used Saran wrap, but I’m not above eating the stale remains of the pickleball player’s soul.”
I yawn out a plume of black flies, then slither out of bed and over to the Keurig machine. In my haze, I accidentally puncture the last pod with a gnarled claw, causing coffee grounds to explode all over the floor. Beelzebub’s breasts! Guess I’m going out for coffee.
I’ve been famished since I woke up, so en route, I swoop down to bum a quick breakfast off a man wearing a THIS IS WHAT A FEMINIST LOOKS LIKE T-shirt. I sink my talons into his chest and extract the glistering, lumpen essence beneath, then cram it into my maw.
For those of you wondering what a feminist tastes like, he’s a pleasantly complex blend of saccharine and bitter notes. His aftertaste whispers, “I’ve never cheated on my girlfriend, but only because I haven’t had the chance.”


