spit

Everytime I attempt to fry potatoes, the two inches or so of bristling oil bites me all over like invisible jumping spiders and I end up with tiny red bumps over my hands and grease in my stomach which probably at one time or another was a symptom of the plague...or witchery. Or beating the plague with witchery.

When I was younger than I am now I told my little sister that when I got very old (older than I am now) I would simply decide not to die. Because I envisioned myself knowing the moment. A slow build to an eventual and very aged end. I could not conceive of being unable to refuse death. And now, I can not exactly conceive of the words to make this nonsense make sense...

Yellow oil spider bites come fast. Spit. Shit. Pop and hiss. Oh. I imagine most things are actually like that.