Steak and Similes (I’m an Alliterative Sell-Out)

Writing is sinew-tough, like the steak that has the ding-ding-ding winning flavor combo but is trapped inside the chewy masses of a heavy-handed chef and an expired timer. I overuse food metaphors like a clumsy culinary cook curing his cuts, crimes of continual alliteration attempting to steal a cheaply bought ‘A’ for creativity. Personal style just feels like last year’s shoes and individuality seems inherently bound to ideas of the past. How do I avoid being a cookie-cutter copy when my recipe has already been written from the kitchen of someone else? Melodramatic rambling feels arrogant and simultaneously inept, pride and insecurity sharing a bed that ends in cold sheets of paper. Saying not enough and way too much is like an unripe first kiss, fumbling at profundity and leaving with foggy glasses. Perseverance in incompetence only gets A’s for effort in a kindergarten art class, where a buck-toothed and brave-hearted version of myself throws paint on an easel and begs that it be praised. Do the splatters matter? Does the paint taint? Someday I might give up the rhymes and similes that I stubbornly clutch in my grimy toddler hands, but until then-writing is tough.