Cookies and Cache by Berk Hi. No. Down here. That’s better. Before you start asking weird questions, or making rude comments, or calling me squirt, which I hate, So, FORGET IT. First of all, I have a growth disorder called ######### ( To long and confusing to write here) It basically means I am very short. I like it, being called short. Nice and short. Nothing offensive like vertically challenged. My house is weird, but nothing like I see living in Silicon Valley.
On daily strolls I see things from electric toilet paper to Facebook’s meditation room, which is a real thing. No. Really. The reason I am living here is that my family of unusually tall people ( strange, I know,) is because of my dad, who had a really strange idea after I barfed up a store bought cookie. Unknown to him, it was bacon flavor. UGH. His idea was that he would make better cookies. So now we’re in good business, with a company called Better Cookies. The recipe is in a safe that’s in a safe that’s in one of two safes. The family's storage is on a shelf and my mom says that I can take one whenever I want, when my dad isn’t looking. My dad is on a business trip to meet a fastfood company to sell to, and my mom is out on an errand, and I am starving. The fridge is locked so no one can get into the emergency stash. The only manageable thing that I can reach is the compost. Ugh. I would be desperate