Maybe you didn't know you would be eating after the concert. Maybe they ordered fries "for the table." (Hahahahahaha.) Maybe you just had a lapse in judgment and decided that, yeah, you could totally wear your risky pants with the non-stretchy waistband to an event literally called "the feast of the seven fishes." Whatever it was, you're here, the fries nobody else will be eating are parked in front of you, and you're just going to go with it.
That foam-roller-crammed-into-my-esophagus feeling will *totally* disappear when I stand up. Yeah.
ASDFASDLFJALKJADSF!!!! I stood up. The waistband of my pants creaked and threatened to give way, and I'm pretty sure the button is lodged in my stomach. BEGONE, DEMON FOOD BABY. I command you!
(I've got a pillow over my midsection RN.)
This would never happen to Behati. 😩
*mournfully places last fry nub back on the plate* "Should've done that 2,938,465 fries ago," the part of you that brought up that Behati pic snarls.
[Sunlight filters through the window as the protagonist wakes. She remembers the previous night fondly, the scent of French fries still lingering in her hair.] It was worth it.
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