HOW TO BOIL A HEART

Raw Prodigy Meat

Raw prodigy meat. Serves a disappointed family. Preparation time: fifteen to twenty years.

  The red paint dripped from its pot like the blood of a prize piglet. The brush gave it a gentle kiss, although the hand around the wooden handle was playing suicide bomber with knuckles.

How to prepare: Pick a baby. Healthy. Fill them with potential milk and place them in a preheated oven. The pan needs to be greased with buttery expectations.

  From a tragic perspective, the red on the brush deflowered the lethargic canvas. One stroke. Then another. A sigh and more strength, as if a fist atrophied by youthful fury were not enough.

When the butter joins the child, check their condition. If the outside is baked to a promising golden, but the inside is sickly raw, turn off the oven but do not remove them yet.

  The brush moved away from its lover only to drown in another color, never cleaning the bristles. The paint pots were spread out inside a wooden box like a crib for Little Baby Jesus. On the front, in a nearly extinct crayon, a family was drawn: mommy, daddy, pearls, little boy and puppy. On the shelves above, they're only trophies cursed with proud ghosts.

In a year of adolescence, the cook's preference, remove the child (eternally a child, regardless of how others see them) from the oven and place them on the main course.

  The canvas received its deflowerer again, this time furious. The bristles stretched for help, but in the end they continued to serve the disturbed artist struggling with arrogant smirks in his school uniform, and no faith passing through the watery, burning eyes.

Over the meat, pour the sauce prepared at the last minute with a spoon of despair.

  More prize piglet's blood was spurted, spread and dripped from the easel to the floor. After the red-painted victim had its surface torn at the painter's command, his violated bristle weapon had no other option but to split in half.

With the sauce dripping and penetrating vigorously, take an instrument of your choice and press the meat (a lot of strength is needed in this process).

  The scarred hand hurried to grab another brush. Tears ran down his cheeks, mixing with the splattered paint and witnessing the hidden screams from which only sobs could escape.

With the meat pressed, grab a knife (sharpen it with diamonds if possible).

  The painter grunted in silence, his body losing balance and falling forward. The thing that kept him balanced was the hand placed on the upper corner of the canvas, the cold of the still-wet paint gave him an electrically painful flinch. The brush remained attached to his other hand because that was the sacred medieval sword that honored and decapitated him.

Cut it into mangled slices, do not be gentle.

  Another muffled cry sank the room, but if the ghosts of those trophies heard, they simply turned their heads. Since he had never been strong enough, the brush ended up falling and rolling under the shelf, just to leave the trail of unfulfilled desire that made him kneel in supplication.

Appreciate the meal like a real judge, feel how blessed blood is bittered by the immature taste.

  Sobs were replaced by moans of agony, moans of agony were replaced by heavy breathing. His brown eyes rose towards the canvas, but admiring one's own art is for the weak. He needed to devour it.

Serve it at the family dinner, at the graduation ceremony or at the funeral of some future.

  In the sea of ​​red and orange, Mommy and Daddy were sitting at the dinner table, facing their little boy. Fork and knife in hand. Their heads were ripped from their necks and arranged on the pearly plates. The skulls opened, and the brains deliciously exposed for an anthropological ingestion.

Bon appetit.