Pulp

Thick strudels of cold blickety cellulose. Stuck to the scrumptious walls. The thick, scrumptious walls. Andrea scrapes her pro-nails along the walls trying to get off the thick noodles. The noodles just got stuck in her nails and stayed on the walls, and now she’s stuck. She has nothing else but her teeth. Her TEETH! But it was so cold and icky and sloozey like morning slugs and uncooked sausages. This is no time to lose one’s head! BITE, Andrea! Bite! Gnawing away all these closures! And Spitting! Sputter! Blech! Run away, far away from these noodle-strudels! Cold and alone.