I ate from the Guinea Pigs' salad bowl.
Every night between 2-3AM, my sister prepares fresh salad in the kitchen. This household, we're amazing aren't we? If it's before 4AM, then it isn't time for bed yet. There isn't a reason why this is so, it simply is so.
Tired? You bet.
Only one motivation could possibly force me to adhere to a strict sleeping schedule, and that is the promise of a healthy complexion. At this point, it seems ridiculous that I should mention I would sacrifice my unreasonable petulance in the name of vanity, because I would have done so long ago if I really cared.
Most human beings have, you know... A heart.
I wonder why acknowledging meaning is such a difficult task-- not that I don't SEE meaning, I simply refuse to accept its existence and the reason behind it. Here, you have an apathetic being who understands you but will not touch you, or your problems.
Baby Romaine Lettuce and mint leaves make a pleasant meal. Munch. Munch. Munch. Am I turning into a Guinea Pig? Munch. Munch. Much. At first I didn't believe sweetness could exist inside the green bodies of leaves but developing Guinea Pig taste buds has caused my tongue to be just that sensitive towards sugar. Ah, my ears twitch at the thought of the salad bowl.
Only by becoming a pet will I grow a heart. Unless it is the salad leaves that are blossoming in my chest.
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