[087]
11/26/2010 03:08 p.m.

The Mexican cart on the corner sells chicharrones fried in the fat of pure dissonance. You buy bags of them regularly for one dollar and twenty five cents.

Thick and sticky and viscous, each bite sends a rattle of electrical impulses through your head-meat: behind your eyes and ears flash an array of hallucinations, chirp chirping and skreek skreeking, wending their way through the criss-cross of your corpus collosum.

The staccato of signals the dissonance causes releases surges of dopamine, delicious and enchanting. You are overwhelmed. You call up your childhood best friend and tell them how much they mean to you through a series of screeches.

They will have none of this goddammit.