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Bruce, Caroline


I stole this one from the lovely kittytech, who stole it from the previous incarnation of her blog, on which she had stolen it from someone else. So call this living on stolen time.

If you read this, if your eyes are passing over this right now, (even if we
don't speak often) please post a comment with a COMPLETELY MADE UP AND
FICTIONAL memory of you and me. It can be anything you want - good or
bad-BUT IT HAS TO BE FAKE. When you're finished, post this little paragraph
on your blog and be surprised (or mortified) about what people DON'T
ACTUALLY remember about you.


A memory of Bruce

Ah, Bruce, I have such a special memory of you-a memory that makes me smile with delight and caring every time I think of it.
I remember the time that you cooked me chicken. Ah, it was such good chicken too, so tender, so moist, and it showed your skills as the gourmet chef you are. I loved every bite I ate, but you dear Bruce, suffered terribly.
It was such tremendusly delicious chicken dear Bruce, and you had the barbaric need to slather ketchup all over it. Again, it was such mouth waterihngly spectacular chicken-I could not, in good conscience, let you ruin such a delectable cooking job by covering it with ketchup. I regret to say I hid the ketchup from you, and continued to plead innocence as to its whereabouts, even when you threatened me with pouring a pan full of chicken broth over my head. It was one of those mixed memories, you know? For while I hated the sadness in your voice, and your threats of never speaking to me again, (which thankfully you have continued to speak to me), I could not allow you to ruin such a work of art as the chicken you prepared for me by putting ketchup all over it.
Oh and yeah, I guess it's about time I told you what I did with the ketchup, for this has happened so long ago.
I took it home with me, because I had recently run out, and I put it upon french fries, where it belongs.