I’m not gettin’ any younger

Day Three: Is that pizza? Smells like pizza. Hello? You know, sometimes these guys are all over me like nobody’s business, random people show up and hold me like I’m a football, this one guy thinks he’s God’s gift to James Taylor. Other times they wrap me up like a mummy and stick me in this basket and away I go, to hang out with the other prisoners. But this is the worst! They’re having pizza, but I’ll tell you right now that no one, and I mean no one will offer me a slice. Hey Ava, how about some more of that white goopy stuff? Yeah, sure, that’s exactly what I want. You really love your baby? Get me some Italian Beef, Daddy-o.


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Don’t think about pizza. Don’t think about pizza.  Don’t think about pizza. 

The waiting game

So, it’s been a few days, and one thing I can tell you is that my parents are into my action like nobody’s beeswax. They are all over my sweet white potato-shaped personhood. Seriously. I let out a wail, and they jump. It’s awesome. But I still can’t order Domino’s. Soon, my friends. Soon. And then we’ll be awash in Cheesy Garlic Bread. I wonder where that desire comes from? Come to think of it, I could use a Sierra Nevada.

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