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But wait, there's more.
There's just no polite way to say "Buy me things", is there?
Need a band name?
rant is where the heart is
entry for 2004-01-16 (14:45)
In which our plucky young hero is cruelly deformed by snack food.
Dear frozen pizza:
That's it. I've put up with your cardboardy taste because you're relatively inexpensive. I've dealt with the way you have nowhere near enough cheese and your three pieces of pepperoni per round pizza are doled out with the rationing skills of your typical WWII community air warden (note: this metaphor does not make sense, and I'm aware) and the sauce is just, well, just weird is the only way to put it.
But just now? When one of those three carefully-rationed (and now piping-hot) pieces of pepperoni slipped off of you and landed on my lip and stayed there and my thoughts spiked meh meh meh MOTHERFUCKER OW OW ow ow ow? And not ten minutes later I had a genuine no-fooling swear-to-God blister on my lip? So that when tomorrow this random strange cute girl demands that she kiss me right away and I have to tell her no? And even if there's no random strange girl at all my lip still stings, in a whiny sort of way?
Yeah, that was the last straw. You're dead to me, frozen pizza. I'm going back to eating hand grenades. So much safer. No chance of burning myself, you see.
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