It WASN’T 6, it was 7. Weather had darkened the morning.

But long as it was 7, I could get up and FOOD POWER my victual-requiring medicine with what I’d been waiting for — a sandwich made with short ribs and sauce I braised last night. True, I felt no draw toward the once-simmered bounty, which had been sitting in the pot sans heat through the night. My body was intimating a preference for oatmeal or something.

But I ignored the viscera.

I had made this thing. I wanted this thing. I would enjoy this thing. Which immediately commenced to making me sick.

It tasted good, though. Maybe it had to be heated.

But it was too late for that. I had started it and no changes could be made after the deadline.

Manwichfully, I determined to be civilized and enjoy the nuances of that which I had crafted. But I smelled, um, VOMIT from somewhere.

Still, I finished the sandwich as best I was able.

I’m a good cook.


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