Dear Rice: it is with pure love that I call you Crazy.Your scent wafts upon my nose from miles away as a Tom Waits melody drifting through the smokey bar-room air.
Your colorful variety of fresh vegetables blended together dances upon my dreams as Stevie Ray Vaughn's Riviera Paradise.
Your creamy chicken-ness haunts me like the Stone's Wild Horses galluping to a restless beat.
Why oh why, then, are you not served black and white?
Why must you have such a texture to make me want to climb within each of your granuals in search of a lost treasure?
It is with pure love that I promptly rush your leftovers to the fridge each evening.
For tomorrow...our lives begin anew.
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