Your story handcuffed me to my iPad. I lay there, its prisoner, as it sprayed food-inspired similes over my body. My wife found us like that, me sweating and my iPad fully charged. “This is the last time,” she said. “I’m calling my lawyer.” She slipped in a pool mayonnaise metaphors and cracked her skull.
Small justice, but rewarding nonetheless.
Then I realized the story ended with no one to uncuff me.