My friend’s first wife was a container of Spanish cottage cheese. He found her at the local grocery store on the day my internet stopped working because the president of my own bank account withdrew all the funds to buy a cute object that was similar to a mouse wearing a goldfish costume. Every morning I brush my teeth with three inches of mumbling corporate paste. It teaches me to breathe. I fill my chest with technological cinnamon that believes in a mouth’s ability to grow its own steam.