Every time Madame Banane entered the bowl

Every time Madame Banane entered the bowl of shredded wheats, she became engulfed in a milky whirlpool. Sick of always swimming around, she decided to make a clean break.
She seized her ankles, hard, like a lobster, the King of the Milk. She seized them and she pulled, and soon she had escaped into herself. She emerged into a
vaulted gallery, ringed with marble busts of the great and the good. Her footsteps echoed as she hesitantly approached the central dias. Where was
Fiddlestick McGee?! He was four minutes late and this was unacceptable. He would certainly lose a fingernail or two for the tardiness. There was nothing more satisfying than
losing fingernails because he could get them replaced with very tiny versions of helpful appliances, such as a tweezer or a very small toaster for very small pieces of bread.
The first few are sort of edible if you salt them well, but after that you really need to start giving them away. If only there was some kind of repository. We could
freeze-dry them, I suppose, and store them in the shed in shrink-wrapped bundles, in case the apocalypse comes. But that's really more trouble than they are worth. We could paint
our surroundings in gleeful colors instead, and we'd have spent our time more productively. At least the apocalypse wouldnt't be a complete bummer then. But whatever, I really
wish the zombies would just get it over with and attack me already. Staying safe in my bunker is a drag and I want to be out there where all the action is but Mommy said I have to
live to repopulate the earth with my zombie-resistant antigen. Gross! Boys are icky. I'll just dose Mommy with moth balls and borrow her bobby pin. So the journal ends.

Started: 2020-10-31 18:02:56
Finished: 2021-01-19 20:31:41

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