Between my hectic job and nourishing social life, it’s not always easy to find the time to make mealtime “me”-time. It’s hard running an empire without being expected to make dinner! This ain’t no disco, and it ain’t no country club, either: this is America’s glistening food megalopolis. And I’m a modern businesswoman, not some do-nothing Italian grandmother.

Breakfast is the same thing, every day: denuded feldspar. I soak it overnight in Mexican creek foam to create a pudding, which I suck from a vinegar-soaked sponge. It’s truly hands free, which lets me simultaneously do my sun grunts and marinate my anus in squeezed orange pith.

Then it’s time to wake my son, Protein, for “school.” A lot of people in Los Angeles spend a ton of money on preschool, but Protein is already instructing inmates at a correctional facility to make confusing vanity license plates for poor people. Before he wheeled off on his solarblades, I tucked a wad of palm chaw into his perfect lower lip and air-kissed both of his gills.
 
 I’m always on the go, so I tend to grab what I can. It takes me about 72 minutes to be delivered from our treehouse in Watts to the store by palanquin, so by the time I get there I am starving.

Today, for source family meal, we have a frozen beet foreskin sprinkled with volcanic ash and a gentle wreath of hemp pubes. So simple and satisfying! Normally I don’t snack between meals but a strong wind passed through the shop when my assistant, Notion, opened the front door to throw a bag of fungus rinds at a smackhead. So I had a little bit of rind breeze, then used a hollowed out wax bean to snort a line of the fictional worm spice from “Dune.”
 
 Then it was time to visit my west side shop. I spent the shank of the afternoon in a throne made of pygmy bone ivory, focus-grouping new juices and crêmes while picking my teeth with a minature sceptre made from the Dalai Llama’s sundried phlegm.

I’m kind of a freak about quality, so all of our elixirs are passed through an onyx cock ring and ingested via douche. One of our interns had a birthday, but since none of us eat cake, I whipped him mercilessly with a studded turquoise belt.
 
 Dinner was a bouquet of tulips with my husband. We flash-boiled those in a marble cylinder full of rose quartz schmaltz and iron filings salvaged from the deck of the sunken French battleship Richelieu. My husband has been dead for eleven months, after Protein and I sacrificed him to the Egyptian God of death in a beautiful Equinox blood ritual.
 
 Around 11, Protein gets home, having basejumped into our rapeseed grove. For dessert, we pried the burls off of a thousand year old black oak while I cried. Protein left me to charge his crystals in the waning moonlight, so I climbed between two sheets of sous-vide human plasma I sleep in, and sipped my nightly gel tea made from clarified gerbil nipple discharge, through a crazy straw while I cut myself. All night I will be haunted by lesbian-tinged anxiety dreams about whale birth.

Tomorrow I’ll probably have that pudding again.

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