This is how I feel. Guys, my drug-driven drama from yesterday has drained me. I’ve got nothing. I’m dead, dormant, done for. Look at that chip. That chip is me. I’ve been sliced open, thrown into fire, and left to dry. I was once something beautiful. I was once a potato! But now… Now, I’m a chip.
I’ve been left fragile. If you poked me, I’d crack, crumbling into a mess of meaningless powder. I’m alone. Do you know what a chip is when it’s alone? NOT VERY FULFILLING. I’m so dry. Yet, I’m so greasy. What’s happening to me? OUR POOR FUCKING POTATO CHIPS ARE ALWAYS HUNGOVER.
The worst part about this whole thing? I’m no longer fresh. This all used to be so cool, so fucking edgy, so novel. But now it’s worn out. Now I’m… PROCESSED. I don’t have the energy to even keep this up you guys. You might as well just brush me off into the trash.
Keep your potatoes off drugs you guys. Don’t let them become a burnt-out chip like me.