Fuck you, flan.
You think you can walk around calling yourself dessert like you’re dessert, when you’re not dessert. You’re slime.
You’re a fucking stack of slime.
Do you see any other stacks of slime at this dessert party?
Of course you don’t, you fucking sad slippery pukepuck. Because it’s a dessert party, like custard probably told you on its way down the stairwell after its stupid colloidal ass got kicked out too.
Pick a physical fucking state and get back to us when you don’t taste like stamps. Go be liqid. Go be fucking solid. But don’t fucking come back while you’re still snot.
What? Oh you’re mad because creme brulee got invited?
Go to Ikea. Buy a fucking mirror. Take the mirror home. Mount it on your wall. Look at it. And tell me if it looks like you just bought a nice framed picture of creme brulee at Ikea.
You didn’t buy a nice framed picture of creme brulee at Ikea. You bought a fucking mirror. And you’re looking at a monster who has ruined every fucking Mexican restaurant birthday dinner I ever had.
They bring you out and sing and expect me to fucking smile because you’re free?
You’re not free. You cost me my whole fucking dinner when I threw up after my first bite of you.
You owe me some dinners, flan. Or you can just stop existing, and we’ll call it even.