[090]
11/26/2010 03:22 p.m.

The Mexican cart on the corner sells chicharrones fried in the fat of pure dissonance. They take the music of John Cage and Igor Stravinsky and cook it down to its essential form, throw in pinwheels of dough, and you buy the outcome in bags for one dollar and twenty five cents.

Crunching through them, the noise disrupts your neurons. They try, desperately, to find a pattern and fail, chirp chirping in haggard bundles and spitting out dopamine in pillets.

You hallucinate wildly, and become aware of certain things:

1. It would be easy to predict the future by randomly selecting a passage from "The Complete Book of Erotic Art Volumes I & II."
2. That time a church mouse got stuck in your printer was a harbinger of your inability to communicate.
3. Your heart is not made of fire. It is instead an intricate series of pumps and valves and caverns, a disappointing epiphany.
4. Sometimes you cannot feel your partner's genitalia inside of your own genitalia.

As the realizations his you, the paranoia sets in. You have felt this anxiety before, but cannot shake it. You are certain that someone will punish you for the grievous act of eating chicharrones by forcing you to eat fried oysters and kiss boys that taste like rotting fruit.