It looks so innocent, doesn't it? Harmless, even. But, alas, this nature had no part in my experience with this venerable pasta this day. It was not to be...
It's bad enough that I trip over air. But this? Really? This? That’s it. It's official. I am the bane of my own rather meager existence. As such, the evidence for this proclamation consists, primarily, of the following elaborations, all in regard to the oxymoron-ic thought processes of my illogically logical cranium...
Who on earth gets attacked by their own food? Has anyone else ever had the distinct pleasure of being nearly blinded by Alfredo sauce (of all things)? Somehow, I think not.
Still, while I'm so pleasantly inclined to my own particular brand of melodramatic rampage, I might as well assemble my gangly limbs into a stance reminiscent of a prostrate position, professing my exceptionally profuse gratitude for my abysmal lack of Italian genotype. (Though, truth be told, were I in possession of such a phenotype, I might, at the very least, appear a bit less anemic. Or, wonders of wonders, healthy. Maybe even tan.)
Updated --- 09.09.2011
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