I'm sitting here peeling oranges, desposting their flesh into a greasy fast food bag where, at one point, I got a burger of some kind or another. I love to peel oranges. Peeling the skin back, peeling beauty back, to reveal something truly flawed and imperfect, something less superfical. I don't eat them. My mother does. I do all this while we speed by fantastic looking (according to my mother) mountain ranges. I can't really tell for I am too engrossed in a murder Hitchcock would laugh at and Kubrick would be a little proud of.
I like how these victims smell... for a little bit. The stench reminds me of my father. But, in turn, as I peel back, the smell becomes too powerful and I hate them all together because that reminds me of HOME. And HOME makes me think of HEAT and HEAT is awful.
So I give mother the bodies and she gets rid of them for me.
The body is easy, the stench you don't have to worry about because dim witts confuse the smell for something nice and pretty. Pretty indeed. Yes all of those are simple. The hard part is the skin. What do you do with that?
You shove it down in a shallow grave of greasy napkins and crusted salt and hope for the best.
Just make sure to wash your hands because everyones skin, oranges and other peelable fruits included, likes to get under yours.
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