I'm sitting at my desk, writing a story about a dog. Several dogs, in FACT, Their histories and Their misadventures. My mother just
Brought me a slice of chocolate cake. One of the Sisters made it at her congregation. I Happen to Be Allergic to chocolate, the cocoa bean, That Is ... and Congregations, too, for that matter. I take two bites and leave it on the kitchen counter. I decide it's too raw, too cold and soggy, it bleeds an icing too sweet and slimy.
"Did you like it?" she ASKs.
"It's ok," I say, unthinkingly, or Should I say, thinking about dogs.
"What?" What did you say? "
I hate repeating myself.
"It's poison," I say, gravely.
Whether or not i actually speak Rarely has bearing and Stockfrom the act, right-through the mask of cologne I splash on for propriety - However, she can not pin the origin of Precisely Any one scent, Meaning she can not Distinguish Between the lingering odours of tobacco and weed and the residual stench left on a body, for it seems, Knowing the difference is like HAVING too gross an acquaintance with an all-together disgusting habit, so, the parental alert reads nothing more Than evil smoke.
"Hear what?" I ask, deleting a sentence .*
"I Think We Have termites!"
* EDIT (4 / 10) This morning, after much consideration, I added the sentence back.
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