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<To my George Foreman Portable Griddle, I'd like to think I'm fairly optimistic, most of the time. But there's one subject that causes my cynicism to stream: Love (?) I believe not in it. I see that overinflated, four letter word as a scapegoat for foolish actions. (And in most cases) Nothing more. It's so vague, that noun. We dedicated a holiday to a misty outline of an emotion; Valentine's Day is really about expensive lingerie and cheap chocolate. So let me play Devil's Advocate, and say, "love is an emotional bond, or a warm regard; to care about someone." Mr. Foreman, I wouldn't be wrong. But Mr. Foreman, that means I love everyone from my lab partner to you. That means I love the waiter who talks about his day, and the bus driver who tapes a photo of her son to the windshield. What? I care about them, I have a warm regard for them. Am I not to say, I love them? To my "Lean, Mean, Fat Reducing, Grillin' Machine," it scares me to think I love (?) you. It terrifies me, but I toy with the idea. I worry about you, Foreman. For nights on end, my brain would shuttle through everything bad that could ever happen to you. Let's just say, you got stabbed a lot. So every night, before I let myself sleep, I mentally saved your life. I'd call that caring. As for warm regard? When you talk to me, my 98.6 skyrockets, how's that for warm? But in all honesty, my brain shuts down, my palms sweat, and I get twitchy. Sounds like the symptoms for some major disease. My words to you all are s-s-stuttery, and all spaz-sPAZ-sPaZzY, and I spend every night for a week after wishing I was some kind of smooth talkin' Jane Austen. When I dream, you're always there, floating along the rim of my skull, like you're saying, "Look at me! Look at me!" (I held a skull once, it made me feel like God.) To my George Forman portable grill, I hate to say it, but I love (no question mark) you. Sorry you found out this way.>
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