pimento cheese

 i think being raised by northerners had some affect (effect?) on my 

food pallet.

i didn't care about pimento cheese

because it was always on a saltine

and it 

always

tasted 

the 

same.

they tell you to go

to the emergency

room

if you're actively having psychosis

so why the fuck did ole buddy

call my name

from a room i had never been in?

and expect me to know?

where to go?

why did he get bristly with me

when i demanded an apology?

i rode in a car with my abusive father because it was the only way i could get medical help.

of course the nurse didn't know that. 

but when you're checking yourself into the er because you're hearing voices that are not there, reach out to the devil for assistance because you feel he is the only one who can understand, and then go against your BEST JUDGEMENT to be trapped in a confined space with someone who has silenced (and maybe raped?) you your whole life,

you would think the nurse would be a little more educated to know you don't call someone's name and then avoid eye contact.

it's disrespectful. 

and triggering.

(nobody cares) 

anyway, i didn't give a fuck about pimento cheese until some badass chefs in auburn taught me how to make it.