Right. There comes a time in every life where you take a breath and manage a minute to look around. These minutes can have long-lasting repercussions when you realize, finally, that you like shameful cheese.
This is worse than sliced American cheese. This is the pure, unwholesome enjoyment of bowling-alley-nacho cheese. It's the same magical cheese which is served with the curly fries at Hooters. Shameful cheese is wrong and is unnaturally orange, but that doesn't stop the longing; it just makes the longing more covert. Covert Shameful Cheese would be a fantastic band name.
Similar to recognizing this unholy love of fake cheese is the realization...of...well, nothing really comes to mind. Right. I unapologetically enjoy fake, plasticky cheese. The end.
Today's fortune: a junkie will practice cello on their lunch break. I am that junkie.
An Erinku:
lime
perched
on edge
happy tummy!
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