Jenifer has returned from a "life-changing" trip to the Netherlands and needs some kind of nourishment.
Even though we both currently reside in New York, Jenifer and I find ourselves on my grandmother's piss-yellow linoleum floor kitchen, where I'm rummaging through the refrigerator for grub.
"She has stir-fry and fake chicken," I fib. (My grandmother definitely has stir-fry but has raised a klan of ravenous, gluttonous carnivores. Vegetarianism denotes sissyisms, and a sign of moral decay.)
"Ooh, that sounds perfect," Jenifer says about the faux-chicken, clasping her hands together in eager anticipation.
I pocket the Ziploc package of "real" chicken," deep-fried in sticky fat and oozing lard from its bloody-red pores.
I don't know why I'm telling tales to Jenifer. Maybe it's because I like fucking with vegetarians.
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