I love this image.
Today I am cleaning the house, one of my favorite things to do in the world. I didn’t used to be a clean freak, but after standing around in enough tweaker shitholes I started to seriously want everything I looked at and sat on and slept in and ate off of or showered in to be clean.
My wife hates a lot of stuff about my job. She doesn’t complain much about the cleaning part.
I am craving the mixed seafood quesadillas at Pier 46, which is this tiny and awesome land-locked fish store in Templeton, forty miles from the closest water. But the owners are passionate and crazy and they have live crabs and lobsters and oysters and mussels and clams and fat loins of sashimi grade tuna and fresh ceviche and I am going there with my gorgeous wife for the quesadillas and I will buy three pounds of green lipped mussels and I will cook them for dinner in a godawful mess of garlic and butter and we are going to eat them and drink a cold bottle of something white, something I’ve never had before, and goddamn if we won’t have chocolate souffles and ice cream after and then watch something Japanese and snuggle up on the sofa and that, dear reader, is my precise and compricated pran.
I am not any more disturbed than it is useful to be.