I am my own enemy

Here's a little update on my life:

I'm doing school work. It's a mimicry essay. So here's an excerpt:

Entrée: Cassoulet, Conceived and Executed by Keith Floyd

A thick crusty layer of breadcrumbs covers the earthenware pot. The edges leak turbid bubbles of the brown stew that burst as they reach the rim. As your spoon cracks the surface, a cloud of steam escapes, scenting the air with the promise of sizzling hunks of sausage and bacon fat like the smell of burgers at a summer picnic, and exposing the stained bone of a plump duck leg that has been baked to perfection before being submerged in the mire of beans to stew in its own juices.

Does it make you hungry? I was starving, personally, despite being bloated past the point of no return with food. I'm not trying to imply that I'm a great writer or anything (though I am.. haha. JK.) but really, spending hours thinking about how to make food come alive makes one's mouth water.

I don't really know what I'm saying, I'm a little tired and going cross eyed from this screen. Just thought I'd pop in and say HI.