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My parents used to fight/scream and throw stuff at each other. It would get intense often because one was a brutish narcissist and the other was a high-strung anxiety fest. They'd be mimicking a Bombardier ærocraft in takeoff waking the whole bloody neighbourhood all whilst I'm nonchalantly making a MASSIVE FUCKING SALAD in the kitchen; I'm talking chopped, crispy and dew-pocked iceberg lettuce with fresh, juicy assorted lettuce and spinach leaves tossed on top. I'd wiggle my way through their claws and colossal high-speed toasters to head out on the deck to snip some crispy scallions and tantalising marjoram stems. Shift through the kitchen and add those scallions, some radishes, thin cucumber slices and some light guacamole atop. Then, I'd add some produce. I'd force my dad's half-limp corpse off the refrigerator door to unveil JUMBO FUCKING SHRIMP; barbecued and beauteously seasoned chicken breasts, B A C O N B I T S, juicy medium-rare steak, taco meat, or, withstanding the time of year, SEXILOUSLY OVEN-ROASTED leftover turkey! I'd drizzle some of my wacky sauce (Vinegar, avocado oil, ginger, marjoram, other spices) on there with delicate attention, and maybe have one eraser hits me in the ear. I'd scurry off to my room and eat it with headphones on as the racket never seizes. I miss those salads.
>picrel is a much more tame version with the taco meat.
