Treat My Body Like an International House of Pancakes Pretend the pages of my menu are sticky and you don’t care why, don’t give one single fuck about hygiene because you know what you came for, and you’re starving. Make me feel as good as on those all-night college nights imbibing bottomless coffees and secondhand smoke that smelled like love, one plate of hashbrowns split five ways. Flip me. Bite me. Soak me in syrup. You, of all people, should know what I like.