So last night I was laying on the couch, super tired from the time change and my recently earlier work schedule, and all messed up from some work I had done on my eye and a bunch of pain and painkillers. I was whiney, and Jeff tried to cheer me up.

"Hey the Census Letter came if you want to fill it out."

"Yay! The Census Letter!" I say, jumping up from the couch. He rolls his eyes at me.

I grab the letter all excited to fill it out, but then I read the front of the envelope.

"YOUR RESPONSE IS REQUIRED BY LAW," I say coldly. My eyes narrow, and I toss the envelope on the floor. "FUCK Your Census," I yell at it.

"Why?" he asks, although I'm sure he already knew.

"Because, how dare they threaten me with bold all-capital letters and REQUIRE BY LAW that I fill out their stupid shit. I was totally going to do it for fun before I saw that. Now, FUCK them."

He laughs and picks up the envelope.

"How funny," he says, "Seeing that made me want to fill it out MORE. And of course it has the complete opposite affect on you."

"And that is the difference between us."

PS -- I'm working on my skills at writing dialogue. Let me know how that worked for you.

We decided to have breakfast for dinner. We had some eggs, syrup, and bacon, so why not?

The bacon had been in there for a while. It looked a little dark. Jeff asked me if it was okay.

I told him to smell it and check the date. The date said March 22nd. I guess he smelled it. I don't think he did though. For some reason he is afraid to smell meat. But if you can't smell the meat, can you eat the meat?

We make a deal that I'm going to cook while he runs to the dispensary. I toss some bacon in a skillet and put the top on it for a minute. I cut some onions and toss them on, I crack some eggs, I ready the kitchen.

I go to take the top off the bacon. I can tell through the glass that something doesn't look right. It is extremely white in there, and bacon is usually supposed to be, well, kind of pink.

I take the lid off, and the bacon jumps up out of the pan and punches me right in the face. It smells like, a rotting body. It smells like, I can't describe the smell. Just trying to remember the smell right now is making me kind of nauseous.

The bacon has this white stringy shit all over it. I don't know what it is. It looks like the fat turned into worms.

I stood over the bacon for all of about 5 seconds, and then I start to feel it. My hand shoots up to my mouth, I look around desperately for an appropriate receptacle, I choose the kitchen sink, and make a dash.

Within moments I am bent over the sink puking my guts out. Yes, that's right. The smell of cooking rotten meat caused me to vomit into my kitchen sink.

I looked back at the bacon to try to decide what to do. I hurled again. Keeping my mouth pointed at the sink I reach back for the dial on the oven and turn the bacon off. I find the lid and throw it back over the pan. Then I double over the sink again.

Stuff stops coming out of me. Now it's just dry heaving. Really painful juicy sounding body rocking dry heaving. I have to get out of the kitchen. I can't be near this bacon.

I decide to make a dash for the bathroom and I make it as far as the kitchen trash can. I'm down on my knees, head shoved into the trash can, heaving violently. The bacon is right by my head. The smell is worse here. I can barely move.

I cover my mouth with my hands and do a sort of crawl, sort of dash, extremely barbarian gallop into my bathroom. I slam the door and whatever was left in my stomach comes out in the toilet.

I'm panting. I'm crying. I don't know what to do. I am locked in my bathroom and the smell is starting to seep under the crack in the door and there's nothing I can do to keep it out.

I spray some air freshener. That incites a new round of retching. The smell of chemical air freshener mixed with the rotting bacon, it's just, too much. It smells like the mortuary ward of a hospital.

I need air. Real air. I throw open the bathroom door and make a run for the windows. Halfway through the living room I almost puke again, I chose the coffee table as my possible target. Worst case scenario at least I'd just be wiping down a table, not sponging up my carpet.

I throw open the window and shove as much of my body out as possible. I retch again. A long trail of spit leaves my mouth and plummets down the 12 flights to the ground. I wish I could puke here and hit that property manager who fucked me over.

I threw all the windows open, grabbed my phone and ran back to the bathroom to puke some more. I called Jeff, no answer. I txted him:

"Bacon's bad. Got sick. Can't cook."

He calls me back and I'm half laughing, half crying, still retching, laying on the floor of the bathroom. He told me to go sit by the window and wait for him.

I go. It feels great. After about 5 minutes with my head out the window I feel sane again, so I take a whiff of my apartment again to see if the worst has past. It hasn't. I'm bent over the window sill again heaving and coughing.

This goes on for quite a while. I was home alone with the rotten bacon for at least another 30 minutes.

I changed my clothes. I scrubbed my hands and arms. I sprayed perfume. I used lotion. I chewed a nicotine lozenge. I tied my hoodie up around my nose like a ski mask.

I had to conquer it. Eventually I threw the bacon in the trash and then puked right on top of it. I ran to the window to recover, then readjusted my hoodie mask and got the trash bag tied up. I ran out the door and down the hallway to the trash shoot holding the bag in front of me like it was on fire.

I shoved it in the shoot. It didn't wanna fit. The slimy warm part where the rotten bacon was sort of got stuck on the edge of the shoot and I had to touch it to shove it in and the feeling of the warm flesh makes me sick all over again. I stick my head down the trash shoot and retch. I can hear the sound echoing down all 12 floors.

Eventually I make it back in the apartment. Everything that even remotely touched the bacon is in the sink, covered in soap, doused with scalding water. All of the windows are thrown open.

And at long last, I turned the onions on the stove back on, and within 5 or 10 minutes the smell of rotting bacon was just a distant memory, and the smell of grilling onions starts to replace it.

I almost puked at least 3 times writing this story. At this point even the thought of the bacon makes me sick, let alone the disgusting smell.

I don't know when I'll eat bacon again. And you know I love bacon.

The moral of the story is, if you have even a shred of doubt about the food you are about to consume, fucking throw that shit away. We might live in a wasteful consumer driven society but god dammit I am not so poor that I have to eat rotten meat.

Gross.

PS If I was going to break down and smoke, that would have been it. All I could think about was how perfectly a cigarette would kill my sense of smell, settle my stomach, battle the nausea. Ahhh cigarettes.

You know you want my hotness.

I was never watching Fox News at all, I was watching the Fox Business Network. Maybe not that much better, but really I never cared about the news, only about how to become a hypocrite fat cat suit. Mmmmm.

You have the ability to write damaging code, because you were granfathered in from Melo 2.0.

This was a gift. From me. From the goodness of my heart.

There is nothing to stop me from taking that power away from you. It's very easy. I can do it in 4 clicks and 1 keyboard press.

So you can whine and complain about how this site is insecure, or you can realize that I decided not to take away what you already had, and that is a privilege, and I can take it away if you start abusing your privileges.

A woman soooooooooooo heartless.

I must have lost my touch.

Hey, it's not my fault they did a special on Atlas Shrugged and Rachel Maddow didn't.

Is this my decline into fascism? Or Christianity?

Is this how it ends?

Or, do I have control over my own mind and ideas?

I would think the latter. :) Suck it, hippies.

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