My loins are on fire…and it’s your fault SRIRACHA
I think of you everyday and wonder when the next time we will be together again. I long to have you in my mouth. So sweet at first and then the fire, like that of my loins, begins to grow with each passing moment. It’s been 12 hours since I last tasted you and yet it feels like 12 years. Could it be I love you too much? Could it be we spend too much time together? You’re at my breakfast, lunch and dinner table. Remember that time I put you in my Bloody Mary? Oh God. Delicious. I used you with soy and furikake to marinate firm tofu. Delectable. And when I mixed you with peach jam and spread it on my toast? Down right, duuurrrty. (In the best way possible)
I’m not sure if you know there are books devoted to new and interesting ways to get off with you. I call them the Sriracha Kama Sutra. Speaking of erotic scripture, I was talking with my homie Pablo Neruda about you. We first began talking about politics, specifically the Chilean Communist Party (it’s a spicy topic), which obviously to talking about our favorite ways to enjoy you and how much we love you. (True story, he said he puts you in the marshmallow fluff when he makes his rice crispy treats. Swear to God.)
Ol’ Pablo might be the biggest Srirachaphile I know, aside from myself of course. He really is. You know what he said about you? He said, ‘I love it without knowing how, or when, or from where. I love it simply, without problems or pride: I love it in this way because I do not know any other way of loving but this, in which there is no I or it, so intimate that it’s hand upon my chest is my hand, so intimate that when I fall asleep its eyes close.’
That’s pretty hot shit right there. Kinda creepy, but hot nonetheless, in a late night Cinemax porn kind of way. But I told him, I said “Poncho, Sriracha is more than an ‘It,’” and I still don’t know what he meant when he talked about your eyes closing. Maybe he meant twisting your green top shut after each use? But that would technically only be one eye. Maybe the eyes of the rooster? Who knows? We were drinking turpentine and smoking glue, so nothing can be corroborated 100%. Especially since after doing a quick Google search, I discovered Pablo Neruda died in 1973. (Man, I need to lay off the turpentine-glue combination)
Anyway, I am counting the seconds until I can make an excuse to gently squeeze you onto my plate again. I might even ‘accidentally’ get some on my finger and…
Sriracha, just stay where you are. I’m coming to you. No matter what occurs, I will find you. No matter how long it takes, no matter how far, I will find you. You’re in the Asian food aisle, right?