Is there such a wonder as a heaping plate of turkey?
Dry it out with smoke and salt to make a tasty jerky.
Smoosh it twixt two slabs of bread for lunch to bring to worky.
Not to roast it Thursday morn would simply be berserky.
So I write this poem to my truest love, my turkey.
"Martinis, my dear, are deceiving. Have one or two at the most. Have three, you’re under the table. Have four, you’re under the host."
Wise, wise words, spoken to me by a wise, wise native. (Seth, if you’re out there…I’ve been missing you.)
Since when do I go out on a Wednesday night? Since when do I drink girly fruity martinis? As Ennirol stated: "This drinking business really inhibits my ability to control what goes in my mouth." And what comes out of it, I say.
Went to bed last night at 8:30 PM after "happy hour" (translation: AARP convention) at "Luxia" with an estranged hurculean pony prince.
I did not go to Muy Thai kickboxing class, as I had originally planned. I skipped dinner and awoke at 2 AM, ravenous.
I ate a carton of cold 3-day old chinese takeout rice drenched in a gallon of soy sauce while my cat begged for an early breakfast (or a late dinner, who can say?) After trying to ignore the searing headache over my right eye for an hour, I fell back to sleep until my alarm rang, eyes crusted with mascara-infused sleep gunk, teeth coated in salty soy-flavored rice glue.
Aaaah, the glamorous life of a buzzing socialite. I don’t know why I don’t go out more often.
My eye keeps twitching. It may drive me to a straight jacket state of insanity.
