imagine walking into someone’s house and this accursed being is sitting at the kitchen table. you brush off your unease and politely say “hey ben, would you like me to get rid of that for you?” to which he replies “thats my wife, lindta.” he sits down in the chair next to it and throws his arm around it, kissing its cheek. you laugh uncomfortably, and as he gets back up, the scrape of the chair across the tile floor is enough to make you jump. it’s featureless, and somehow staring directly at you. you talk with Ben for awhile before deciding to call it a day, and as you make your way through the house, lindta continues to sit malevolently at the table. you brush it off once more, but upon making your way towards the exit, you notice that you can’t seem to find your keys. you mindlessly check your pockets as you make your way out the door, but you’re stopped. the door is locked. you still can’t find your keys, and as you continue trying to open the door, you hear the unmistakable sound of a chair scraping the tile floor.
I love it when I click on a recipe link because it sounds yummy and instead of a recipe I get a several page dissertation on a food blogger’s boredom with her marriage and lies she was told in childhood
this ending in a recipe literally changed my fucking life i thought i was being spread some fucking truisms abt the ugliness of marriage but it was literally a preamble to creme brulee brownies. writing is fake
