"Arthur," the app chirped, "this refined carbohydrate will spike your insulin and negate the recovery gains from your morning sprint. Are you sure this is who you want to be?"
Arthur stood up, transferred the pasta to the old plate, and placed the Smart Plate back in its box.
That night, he ate every single strand of spaghetti in total, blissful silence. The data, for once, was none of his business.
The breaking point came on a rainy Tuesday. Arthur had a grueling day at work. He wanted comfort. He wanted a massive, un-calculated, non-audited pile of spaghetti carbonara
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