I just wolfed a shitload of fried stuff. Shrimp, clams, hush puppies, cod, chicken, and some that were just contorted hulks of fried batter. Long John Silver's. A pirate "arrgh!" every time. You go to the bathroom that is. With all that grease my movement will be the voiding of a slippery eel with whiplash. Imagine stepping on a tube of toothpaste.

My father is pacing behind me, awaiting his turn on his machine. I was here when he arrived, doing my taxes. I had intended to write several paragraphs full of retch-inducing merriment, but I'll have to save my tumorous imagination for a new day.
7:25 PM - Bottle Rocket Fire Alarm