my underbelly is a piano

i've been cooking much bacon lately. it's in the fridge, ya know. generally delicious. you can slap it on any sandwich and call it appetizing. however, the whole concept of it seems self-hating to me.
i don't like red meat. i don't like fatty-ass shit. i don't like using tongs when i'm cooking, especially with anything that spits back at you. but self-hating comes easy to me. after a while it sort of becomes an art, like driving drunk or mounting a horse. so why not indulge?
alright. i lied. i don't mind tongs at all. and they know why. we have had some intimate (unspeakable) moments together.
but... i have nothing to say. i've got fingers to type and i'm proud of their speed and accuracy. and i have elbows, all ashy and mottled. i have hair, increasingly thin and absent. my body, disease-ridden and forgettable. and bacon, burnt and symbolic.
i'm planning on turning my life into a rock-opera. don't get scared when i start singing to you.