Dinner.

I’m eating brownies for supper. My family isn’t having a nice, sit-down dinner tonight. If I want to eat a healthful meal with rice, a viand, and some vegetables, I’m gonna have to go get it myself. And I’m too lazy. Or too busy with nonsense.

My brownies are soft, chocolate ones, but they aren’t that sweet. Not if you drink water every once in a while. Not if you browse the web as they sit beside your computer. But these brownies, they’re good enough for me.

My brownies are a dessert for some people. But tonight it’s dinner for me. Dinner for the hour, or for however long they’ll last in my stomach and give me the feeling of being full. I don’t mind. I can get more. A whole box of them is sitting in the fridge. I can always get more.

My brownies, they are small, and messy to eat. I have braces, you see, and I can’t bite food yet. I’m using a fork.

My brownies, they might make me lose weight–I’m used to more food. And they might keep me thin. I hate it when people say I’m thin, because I’m not that thin. I’d much rather they tell me I’m getting fat. It would be a compliment, not an insult. It would make them think my parents are feeding me right. Or that I’m feeding me right.

My brownies, I don’t want them anymore. I want some rice and a viand and some vegetables to go with them. I want to be full for the whole night, and wake up healthy. I want to go to the kitchen and make the effort of preparing dinner.

My brownies, you won’t last. I don’t want you anymore.

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