I am callow and I am butter. I am spread, or perhaps more aptly, scraped across so much toast that I have
FINALLY become thin. But not the thin we've been waiting for, not the revitalizing thin, not the bouncing with energy, keen for life thin, but thin lipped. Thin and almost tasteless like your butter, but with just enough to coat your mouth with that un-refrigerated, slightly rancid, slightly still good enough to not buy a new one flavour. That's the thing when it goes un-refrigerated. Gets spots. Gets you too. With consumer guilts, or family guilts, or moral guilts, or the paper-weight guilts that come as that slightly rancid, slightly still good butter is used (in it's container, naturally) as a placeholder for a note. You're not going to put it back in the fridge, because you're not sure if everybody's had lunch yet from two days before but it is getting spots.
I guess butter economy comes with experience.
