I have decided to vomit my writings onto livejournal, at least until I stop vomitting.
One time, Henry Kissinger ate an entire plate of lasagna. His tongue burned with the arcane fires of spices he dared not name. He washed it down with a glass of milk and thought, "That was some fine lasagna."
He stood up from the small formica table. Pushing in his chair involved an act of contortion he was not immediately ready for, but he was wise with the width of his shoulders and the closeness of the knick-knacks on the wall just behind him.
He picked up his plate and threw it at the far wall. It sped terribly over the long stretch of kitchen. It then made a strange shattering noise when it hit, as though the speed of sound (a constant) decided to have a slight stroke. Kissinger stared at the plate as its component shards hung in the air like a fly in translucent butter. He turned towards his closest door and ran, the air shimmering and rippling like a jolly turbid gelatin.
He stood up from the small formica table. Pushing in his chair involved an act of contortion he was not immediately ready for, but he was wise with the width of his shoulders and the closeness of the knick-knacks on the wall just behind him.
He picked up his plate and threw it at the far wall. It sped terribly over the long stretch of kitchen. It then made a strange shattering noise when it hit, as though the speed of sound (a constant) decided to have a slight stroke. Kissinger stared at the plate as its component shards hung in the air like a fly in translucent butter. He turned towards his closest door and ran, the air shimmering and rippling like a jolly turbid gelatin.