bury the past, rob us blind, and leave nothing behind

I'm getting ready for a very important scrabble match. I've been reading the dictionary for weeks, building an impenetrable defense of "quarks" and "phlegms". I am unstoppable.

Really though, I'm at the Quiet Storm Coffeehouse on the edge of Garfield, waiting for my opponents. This place is charming, and might actually be worth coming to more often if the coffee didn't taste like old socks. They used to have live music on Fridays and Saturdays, making it one of the only local venues accessible to someone my age, but they quit awhile back for no good reason. It's actually a little awkward sitting in here right now, since the last time I was here was with a photographer I dated for a short period of time, but had absolutely nothing in common with. It was like, I said, "What about Breakfast at Tiffany's?" And she said, "What?"




This is such a hipster joint, but it's so out of place. I mean, it's really in a bad neighborhood.

It feels good to be working out regularly again. I mean that in a sort of mentally fulfilling way, since in reality my whole body hurts right now. But I feel pretty good, and my incline bench is, like, 205. That makes me a man, right?

Check this shit out:

We roasted a pig's heart. It was awesome--you stuff the ventricles with onions and herbs. The meal, of course, holds endless potential for puns.