We met each other in hell’s kitchen, both heartbroken. His pride was stolen, mine nonexistent.

He offered me his left hand. His right one still sore from the last person put his soul on fire. Dug a grave for all his emotions.

“Let’s make cookies!” He said and I agreed foolishly, recklessly. He poured his flour into our bowl of misguided compromise. Mixed it and stirred it with my runny yolk. We were vamished, drooling over cookies.

We danced like hyenas on a dry Sahara. Oh how I imagined! Sweet sweet cookies with choco chips and rainbows sprinkled on top… so crunchy…

We put our cookies into the oven and managed the temperature. His tongue couldn’t wait for the sweetness yet to arrive. So he preyed on and grabbed my sugar. And I let him because I thought I was about to taste some magic cookies we had made together in such chaotic and majestic harmony.

I reached my telephone. His tongue still twisting on the sugar running through my fingers. I heard the voice of my advisor preaching on how to love thy neighbors. Even if I’m to give up my best cookie, bound to serve my partner the most delicious smoothie. Never let their tongue get burned or worse ice frozen.

As I always do I follow you, my dearest Professor Doo bee doo. My naivety is not to doubt the mastery of your misinterpreted sugar coated poisoned polished experiences.

Now the cookies ready. Let’s see… Some are well baked, the rest are not. Fulfilling my prophecy I let him have the tough cookies. I take for myself the ones gooey. So gooey it melts in my hand and stains the floor. And he throws away all my tough cookies because of the alarming sore on his right hand. Then the gooey cookies blazes merrily on my right hand, thus we’re both sore. Yet I still thank him for the cookies. Ah poor generous me!