There’s a beaver-colony-level gnawing happening in my stomach that I can’t shake. It’s as though my stomach is made of the most tender whatever wood that beavers love most. The choicest wood that male beavers send to the female beavers of their affection. And these beavers are going to town in my stomach, because they haven’t seen this amount of sweet-ass lumber in a long time and they are taking full advantage of this new haul before it disappears.
what.
