Outgassing: It’s what’s for dinner.
To those of you wondering about the feasibility of a microwave oven and a styrofoam carryout container* getting together and making a little hot dinner action, I say ‘Nay! Nay, dear Muffinasses!’
Yeah, um, don’t do that. Don’t put styrofoam in the nuker.
I do, in fact, live dangerously so that none of you are forced to. Your well-being is obviously paramount to me.
*Shut up. Just shut the living fuck up. I’d not eaten since ten this morning and was all headachey and crabby and was blinded by my overwhelming desire for those leftover Szechuan vegetables.
Now I’m just blinded. And overwhelmed. And yes, there’s headachey still, as well. Plus some burgeoning upper-respiratory thing that may or may not be the precursor to fatal lung cancer. And I think I seared the contacts to my eyeballs, but I can’t be entirely sure, as after the first onslaught of painful, stinging fumes, I could not longer actually feel the eyes.
But no worries; I looked in the mirror and they are still there. Plus, there’s that whole ’sense of sight’ thing (which in truth was never all that fucking stupendous in the first place).
Stelllaaaaaaaahhhh!
4 worked it out »