† SINISTER PUBLICATIONS†

I didn’t just cook dinner tonight. I wrote a diss track on a skillet.

First, I dropped some napa cabbage and portabella mushrooms in soy sauce and teriyaki — not too much, just enough to smell like hope. That broth simmered like sweet promises whispered late at night.

Then came the chop. Slammed it down hard into the leftover juices, butter melting like dignity, and Wild Hogs BBQ Seasoning raining down like judgment. A splash of water, lid on, a sauna of regret.

Pulled it off. Cranked the heat to hell. Let that fat sizzle, pop, and blacken like every text I should’ve never sent.

Cilantro on top. Green, fresh, mocking me with its fake little smile.

The result? Delish. But every bite was like tasting my ex — sweet, salty, bitter, and charred all at once.

Bon appétit, suckas.

Simple, porker chops don’t need much love, just like that ex that left. She just needed attention, a little bit so she coud flourish and leave the nest. Next…