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1. I took a long fried-chicken sojourn after a bit of KFC food-poisoning (sue away Colonel, I'm writer-broke). About ten years later, I worked up the courage to dive into a sandwich from a Koreatown joint. From there, I was like an ex-Mormon unleashed on Tinder.

2. Run faster. The robot is gloating.

3. I'm Roombaless, the least of the lifestyle-improving innovations I've ignored.

4. I haven't! No food poisoning this time, I'm just evidently not the adventurous eater I thought I was.

5. My follow-up questions are hideous.

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Your fried chicken experience had me laughing like a mad man. Thank you! One note: I think you can sue the Colonel. You make be a broke writer, but he's got big chicken money. Time bust that Colonel down to a private.

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I could use that windfall, there’s no relapse like the fried meat relapse. Unless I fall back into trading cards. Then it’s over.

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Maybe we should look into a structured settlement that pays you annually over the rest of your life, so that you don't blow all your chicken winnings in one go.

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