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Sunday sillies: 27 minutes
I looked at the square box carelessly placed on the passenger seat and the GPS estimate of the time remaining to the destination. Home. 27 minutes.
27 minutes until I walk in the door and kick these horrid sandals that have made sausage links out of my toes.
27 minutes until I unclasp the teeth of this bra and fling it across the room. “Goodbye, you sadist,” I’ll tell it.
27 minutes until I take off this new swooshy emerald-coloured breath-constraining dress and stop resembling a mid-century tea cosy.
27 minutes until I open that box and plant my face into the middle of what will be a warmish pie, right into the formerly-melted-now-solidified cheese.
I waited for the next red light, popped the box open, and picked up a steaming slice, stretching the delicious asiago across the hand break, landing a pepper on top of the gear stick, and folding it into my mouth. Marinara sauce dripped on the bodice of the emerald dress, gently scolding my skin on its way.
Something was missing. Garlic sauce!
Up popped the lid of the small container, and in went the remainder of the folded slice, emerging to repeat a pattern of destruction across the parking brake and decorating the bottom part of the dress.
Damn. That’s delicious.
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