(cradles journal's head in arms, mutters mystical incantation, and the journal is resurrected)
[size=1]At work now. Not working. Sssshhhh!!![/size]
I'm on somewhat of a funnyman/uber-dork streak as of late. One might say I'm "on a roll", but I would… More
(cradles journal's head in arms, mutters mystical incantation, and the journal is resurrected)
[size=1]At work now. Not working. Sssshhhh!!![/size]
I'm on somewhat of a funnyman/uber-dork streak as of late. One might say I'm "on a roll", but I would disregard such comments and fling a cream pie at that person's face.
Speaking of food, I've been on a culinary frenzy lately. Made some stir fry just before the weekend, and curry the next night. Dicing the veggies was actually quite comedic. With every slice I made, a little piece of vegetable shot off the cutting board and across the kitchen, ricocheting off toasters and cereal boxes and what not. Carrots aren't supposed to bounce, are they? But yeah, the curry was bellissima. I wish I was eating it riiiiight noooow...
More food + dorkiness: I was eating lunch in the parking lot yesterday, sitting in my Buick ("The Golden Ride") with the windows rolled down (I was gonna read later on my lunch break). I was rockin' out to old school Foreigner with a mouthful of sandwich, actually trying to sing through the dense walls of multi-grain bread jammed in my mouth, right as a few co-workers walk by. "Hey Neum". I waved back, not even attempting verbal communication with another human with food blocking my words. I kinda turned down the radio as they meandered through the cars and towards the office. Then, slowly, I turned the radio back up, and continued my rocking out. Heh.
Today even, I found myself with piece of cornbread in my hand and a barbaric urge to maul it (you know life is treating you well when you find yourself in such situations). Well, being the dastardly food torturer that I am, I decided to make a "character" out of my cornbread. A minute later, I've got a co-worker cracking up to "Steve the Cornbread", my tasty little cornbread friend with honey drooling from its makeshift lips (we were in the breakroom). Steve would talk of his lost family, stuck in a glass pan in a distant kitchen, the memory coated in horror. His therapist told him that his recurring nightmares of [i]the spatula [/i]were likely a result of abuse while young. And probably drugs in adolescence. Then Steve grew silent and introspective, and my co-worker had to go, ya know, work. And then...I lost myself in space and time. I was wrapped in a golden warm fluff, yellows and light browns twirling in knots, porous and aromic with a flavor I dare not describe. Next thing I knew, I had crumb-coated honey around my mouth, looking for a napkin. I wonder whatever happened to Steve.
Other stuff's been goin' on too, but I dare not describe.