It could have something to do with the 88-pound pig I ate for most of last week. Or the fact that I've been eating burgers for this blog at a rate roughly equivalent to a small nation that has a diet that consists entirely of burgers.
But despite a self-imposed meat ban of 48 hours, my body is sending out desperate cries at inopportune times. I breathe sausage in the elevator. I re-taste bacon in meatings. I even misspell meetings. I have a case of the unidentified meat burps.
It is arguably the worse guessing game on the planet. Meaty burps that taste of meat products which I haven't eaten in months. It makes me wonder if through some form of comic book magic, my body is synthesizing a kind of super meat.
This super meat bubbles up and then I struggle to identify the taste. Not wanting to think about it further, but being stuck with a slightly acid-y question literally on my tongue. The
So either my body has made the decision to quit breaking down meat -- in which case you'll find me at Fud. Or consider this post my creation myth and Jonathan Bender as my non superhero alter ego.
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