Greetings from Appalachia Hotel

We'll all have a good old fashioned food fight or eatin' contest.  The winner chows the doughnut hole.  Burned ends and all.  Pele fire all up and down your chin.  Some witness takes the floor and calls out your hobbies and styles.  Writes your star chart even.  I'm having a problem with food and livery.  Here in my boxed remove in Appalachia, I find myself hardly getting it done.  Miss Merchant tossed her cookies.  It's time to move on from old sorrows and humble pie.  Here in this organic matter that oozes from the dark depths of the human heart, we see our cholesterol rocket and our fires fade.  Give me some carbonated fizz to finish off my palpitations.  Pump, pump, pump.  Die.  I also can not breathe through fart noises and sulphuric emissions.  Rotten eggs for those rotten tomatoes.  The words stink like rotten food.  The food we gorge ourselves with.  Piles of food.  If only it were real.  Fast food should be an apple on the go.  I'm an adult so certainly my decisions should follow.  But, oh the junk culture has me by my guts.  It won't stop until I'm a rotted out core of my former self.  All of this for a haunted house.  This human flesh needs some tlc.  This vessel needs some care.  It's been put in the corner for far too long.  It needs to take priority.  I've mapped my struggles out like Cervantes and his windmills.  The long ago listless rotations of dreams around an idea.  Struggles kind of linger in that way.  Can't get a breeze to blow.