So I keep spinning and spinning. For a split second I’m gasping, completely engulfed in the strange flames. Then all at once, the fire is gone. I slowly come to a stop, wondering if I’m naked and why Cinna has arranged to burn away my handsome outift. But I’m not naked. I’m in a bread of the exact same bread of my everyday all carb diet, only it’s burnt. Wonderingly, I lift my long, panini arms into the air, and that’s when I see myself on the television screen. Clothed in yeast except for the crust on my sleeves. Or should I say my breadsticks. Because Cinna has turned me into a burnt piece of toast.