I reach up to the sky and think, "What's for lunch?" I search my soul for an answer and find nothing but alcohol and Internet porn. It's a tempting suggestion, but, still hungry, I push away from the table of my soul and, stretching languorously, say, "Sorry, baby. Maybe later," and with a wink and a smile, I make my exit. I start to make my way to my stomach, thinking it might know what it wants, but I remember, it's nothing but a churning mass of acid, unwanted gas, and, frankly, carries the smell of inverted ass. Besides, there's not much of a consciousness involved down there. It pretty much takes in the macerated food stuffs of my dreams and passes them on, one step closer to the shit they all turn into.
Sitting there, on my spleen, my journey into the gastrointestinal system forsaken before it was even started (the soul being the next-door neighbor of the spleen) I start to wonder whether this whole exercise is one of futility, a practice of gibberish in the guise of pretentiousness. In the background, I hear my beloved digester gurgle, and I think, "This must be an allegory for something. My life must symbolize something of greater, more abstract value than just the simple search for food, shelter, sex, and entertainment."
Thinking of sex now, and knowing that I never should have mentioned the concept to myself in the first place, I leave my erythrocyte-destroying seat and head down even farther to the glands, my twin Dick Cheneys, whose gnarled, clotted hands control the invisible strings of my psyche.
I reach the testicular abode only to find automatons, working like machines to produce hormones and splitting my genetic code randomly to create little kamikaze swimmers, most of whom are destined to die a pointless and unloved death, but all of whom are willing to sacrifice for the chance at a union that will make them whole and complete. I understand that I will find no guidance in my search here.
Dismayed, I trek back, away from gravity, to nestle myself back within the folds of my mind, finally understanding that there is no greater source of wisdom within me. I'm all that resides inside this vivid corpse, so I turn to my wife and ask the riddle that had gone so long unanswered in the darkest corners of my mind, even though my mind isn't so much a quadrilateral as it is amoeba shaped.
She turns to me with a longing in her eyes that I knew I shared and uttered with an obvious inner peace and confidence that the Dalai Lama would have felt desirous of and parted her lips to speak: "Pizza." I knew she spoke wisdom, and I surrendered my self-imposed pursuit to pick up the phone and call.