[image: Two sharks looking with some confusion at a fish that doesn’t look much like a fish, as if debating whether it is food or not.]
To eat, or not to eat, that is the question. Whether tis nobler in the stomach to suffer the slings and arrows of hunger, or to take mouths and by digesting end them.
To bloat, to eat, no more, and by eating we say we end the stomach ache and the thousand natural pangs that digestive systems are ere to. Tis a consummation devoutly to be wished.
To bloat, to eat, to eat. Perchance to fulfill? Ay, there’s the rub. For in that meal of nourishment what fulfillment may come must give us pause. There’s the respect that makes calamity of so long bulimia.
For who would bear the hunger and malnutrition of time? The food corporation’s wickedness, the proud anorexic’s contumely, the pangs of despis’d hunger, the law’s delay, and the spurns that a good appetite by the unworthy takes when you yourself your acquaintance could make with a perfectly good stingray.
Who would fardels bear to suffer under the veil of famine, but that the dread of something after the meal, the undiscovered course from whose satiation no feeder returns, puzzles the will, and makes us rather eat those fish we have, than swim to others that might not taste as good.
Thus conscience doth make dolphins of us all, and thus the native hue of resolution to feed is sicklied over with the pale cast of thought. And meals of great pith and moment with this regard, their ocean currents turn awry and lose the name of action.
Taste you now, the delicious Ophelia. Calamari, in thy bread crumbs, be all my meals remembered.
Fuck.
Thus conscience doth make dolphins of us all
what the fuck is this
grandma why
oh god