How I Became a Potato.
PO-TAY-TO!!!!
Boil ‘em, mash ‘em, stick ‘em in a stew!
They say you are what you eat. No one illustrates that point more than me. I love potatos and considering my behavior as of late, I have been just that. A potato, plopped vis a vis the tele in pure tater form: motionless, legless, armless, baked and fried. I don’t do drugs but I might as well.
Jessie and I have recently acquired a new addiction in the form of How I Met Your Mother. You can thank Netflix for that… and Ted Mosby’s ever-so endearing quest to find his one true love… the tension created by Robin Scherbatsky who’s essentially Mosby’s Great White Buffalo….. the adorable dynamic of Marsh-mallow and Lily-pad as the it-couple….. and the legen- wait for it and watch out if you’re lactose-intolerant because the next half of the word is-dary Barneyisms, the by-product of Neil Patrick Harris’s genius performance as the ultimate Gaslamp P.U.A.
I identify with Marshall the most. How terrified I can be of opening a champagne bottle or of the unidentified creature lurking under the couch. The mushy center that oftentimes longs to order the fruity drinks at the bar.
I won’t go on. I’m only on Season Two but I’m instantly enamored of this show.
POTATO SUIT UP! and let the transformation begin. My skin becomes rough and dry, and spotted with eyes that only face one direction. My insides harden. I am round. I am immobile. I am potato. Pretty soon my fingers will become french fries: floppppy, sloppyyy and unnaaable to ty-dlkfd=pe anyyyything distinguaishalbeeeakdjldj dl djkljfdl ss ssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss
