Marla stood in her kitchen, whisk in hand, eyes gleaming with culinary ambition. “This salad will be legendary,” she declared, tossing lettuce into a bowl. She added soy sauce, then pineapple chunks, pickles, and a handful of hot peppers. Her roommate Tim wandered in, nose wrinkling. “Marla, that’s not a salad—it’s a crime scene.” She waved him off. “It’s avant-garde!” The next day, Tim found her face-down in the trash can, muttering, “I need a new hobby.” Marla glanced up, eyes bloodshot. “At least the flavors were… intense.”
