Death on a Plate

They called it Jamaican food. They lied. Every bite, every smell, every morsel screamed neglect and disrespect. This isn't food-it's arrogance plated as cuisine. I've had real Haitian food. I know what care, love, and flavor taste like. This? It tastes like death. Like the animal was killed hours ago in someone's backyard and dumped onto a plate with zero respect. The meat is tough. The vegetables limp. The grains bitter. Every bite feels like a crime scene in my mouth. I can smell the indifference. I can feel the negligence clinging to me like a second skin.

This story is unapologetic. It's raw. It's chaotic. It's the truth about a plate of food that claimed to be something it's not. I push the plate away, but the disrespect lingers. The energy of this "meal" haunts the table, the restaurant, and me. And I will not hold back. I will not sugarcoat. Life deserves honesty. Flavor deserves reverence. I deserve respect.

If you've ever tasted food that insulted your soul, you'll understand this rage. If you've ever been promised culture and received death on a plate, this story is for you. Every word is a punch, every line a reminder to never swallow lies disguised as something real. This isn't just a rant. This is a rebellion. This is truth served raw, unapologetic, and explosive.

Warning: This is not for the faint of heart. It's chaos, it's fury, it's honesty. If you can handle the taste of reality, read on.