The other day I read a short story. It involved food. Let's say, oh, for lack of better example, it involved pie.
By the end of that story, I wanted a piece of pie. Oh, hell, okay, it really was pie, and I went out and bought a pumpkin pie.
Can I sue the author?
It reminds me of reading Cornelia Read's Field of Darkness and the sudden cravings for potato chips and chip dip.
I gained five pounds reading that book, damn her. Please, please, please, as we approach this festive season, no more writing about FOOD!
And now that I'm finished the newest Rankin I'm officially depressed. I mean, I was a bit depressed already, but this just compounded it.
I wonder if it can be a bad thing to look forward to a book too much.