no ham hocks for me

His yummy little birthday sandwich; happy slices of life. You’re not actually happy are you?  No, you’re fine.  You are happy.  Maybe slice it into triangles.  Pretend he’s a child, the fucking child you’ll never have because he doesn’t actually love you. I can just see you wistfully humming away as you gleefully twist your supermarket pepper grinder you fucking pot-plant-in-a-vintage-wheelbarrow cunt, fingering yourself over your assorted peppercorns that don’t even matter. Fucking idiot - cracked pepper on pre-sliced ham is like showering before you have sex with your cousin. The sweetest justice is that the kind of piece of shit men who get off on women being this fucking submissive kitchen-sandwich slave wind up on the receiving end of this mediocrity. I can just see him opening his lunchbox at work:
“Happy birthday Darren Leigh[that’s his name I reckon] - what’s for lunch?”
“Why, the missus whipped me something special *opens lunchbox* PHWOOOAAAR a sandwich! Hold my tools while I stick a fucking drill in my skull”

A ham sandwich as a birthday present? Fuck off - give me a hock of ham, three bottles of wine and a bucket and lock me in a room for 36 hours.  Hose me down when I’m done - there’s a fucking birthday present.