Guts

Both my body and my work computer seem to be having innards issues. I do not like this. It makes me rethink my whole “I wanna be a cyborg,” life goal. I used to think being a cyborg would be awesome, but if my robot body is as buggy as my laptop, no-thank-you, I’ll stay meat. Yay, meat.

Meat me likes the chocolate whipped cream now being pushed by Starbucks. Oh, holy hell, is that shit awesome. I still get soy mochas, but then I’m all dangerous and stuff, asking for chocolate whip, ummmm-hmmm. No wonder my intestines feel like they are stuffed with venomous snakes.

Last night, I dreamed of pizza. Not gluten-free crust, home-made pizza, but wheaty, cheesy, delicious pizzeria pizza. I want pizza, real pizza. I long for, yen and lust after, desire and crave, pizza. Tomato or garlic sauce, three cheeses, Mama Lil’s peppers, olives, and a crispy, crackling, brick oven crust. Onion and sun-dried tomato, or spinach pesto. Rawr.

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