If doughnuts were cigarettes I would need a hypnotist.
Mama stress manifests, ebbs and flows, we all have our crutches.
Open mouthed stares at wrestling matches over forks
I slam down the lid on the watched pot of frustration.
A dozen of your finest, please.
Zen practice for the harried, dissipation at its finest.
Rather than fold in on myself, artificial comfort.