It was the first Monday of the semester, oh, a time of great trepidation. A new chancellor on the horizon, half the university under construction for little benefit, and the looming spectre of COVID-19 lingering over us all, like a poltergeist unshackled. But while we all have our guard up about the threat of COVID-19 bringing the long-foretold economic recession to a head, we have a silent killer in our midst, one equipped with the cloaking technology of the Predator and the acidic blood of the Xenomorph.
The $2.50 Dried Squid – Mild available at Munchy Mart was so tempting, the price speaking for itself and the quality of the food remarkably holding up to inspection. There was plenty on offer, a true guest at the Bacchanalian feast. Ambrosia of the Pacific. The humble cephalopod died to bring us joy – and it did, at first. Oh, the spice showed the passion which once underpinned its previous life as living, breathing being. In fact, I wished there was a Supa Hot version. But only a few hours later, the Dried Squid – Mild showed its true purpose as an invertebrate infidel; I have IBS, one of the few weaknesses in my mortal form, and Cthulhu’s envoy made sure to lay waste to my temple. From Monday until the time of writing, over three years later, the malevolent mollusc had me setting up camp on the toilet, like a Russian civilian finding a way to survive the long wait in Leningrad.
And I would eat it all over again.