This once was a place that I expressed cultural revelations, decant tales of life and the fruits of the world, ideals of what perfection could be. Now I realize that it is all futile. Exploring the world and tasting lavish meals was great, but what has it really added to my life? A higher sense of what could be, a dream,  a desire for more...a fantasy? Life, as food starts out as is raw. As much as we try to alter it, change it, manipulate the molecular structure of it, it all is just a raw piece of meat, ripped from bone, stripped of sinew and presented on a pretty little plate in hopes of acceptance and to pull off that one impossible ideal. Perfection. Nothing is perfect, nothing is painless, one can't occur without the other at the very fucking least.

Life is a fucking plate of previously frozen popcorn shrimp, beet salad, sous vide pork and microwaved broccoli.