It was by the turnpike

It was by the turnpike. The woman was. The body was. She. It.
I saw it, face up on the side of the road, but didn't stop. Surely the ambulance was already on it's way, and I'd had a long day at work. I was in a hurry to get home.
So I did. I went home, and I had my microwavable hungry-man meal, and I put it out of my mind. It wasn't until the next morning when I thought that something might be wrong. Because it, was still there. I didn't stop, I was in a hurry to get to work.

But isn't Steam Steamy?

You might say that steamy, as an adjective, can describe a good many things including steam itself. To you, dear reader, I say “Fuck Off.” Take your giant human head, wrap it in plastic, and allow yourself to slowly die. If I were steam itself, I would revel in the freedom of being a rapidly expanding gas. I would daily celebrate the mere act of floating and burning in the cool night air. The freedom of steam is something I admire, almost as much as I loathe the common man, but let me draw your attention to one important fact: steam isn’t delicious.

People Often Ask Me

People often ask me “What is it like to be a baked potato?”
I don’t often indulge the world with deliberations on my own existence, I prefer instead, to remain passively stoic, and let the world think what it will. If I am without words, then the world is free to judge me by my actions alone. However, since I was approached by the author with quite a bit of grated cheese to narrate this piece, I will indulge you all. What is it like to be a baked potato? In a word, “steamy.”