This is Not a Food Post

Random Rambling.

It may also be Rated R, and not appropriate for creatures of all ages and thought processes. I’m also running on 5 hours of sleep infused with a severe and well-deserved hangover because I indulged in tequila festivities last night and topped them off with a visit to Leyenda and Clover Club in Brooklyn to further enhance my alcoholic tendencies and I swear the mango got me feeling like…I literally don’t know what I’m saying. But I really did have some bomb mango and mezcal situation at Clover Club.

I just feel like I suddenly have a lot to say and I got a quick bolt of enlightenment and am somehow feeling inspired with all these thoughts trekking through my soul and I wouldn’t call anyone up right now and let them know what’s up because I’m truly talking out of my ass and it’s getting late and I’m waking up at the crack of shit to go to Barry’s Bootcamp so I can cleanse my body of all of last night’s fish tacos and fruity cocktails. MER. I also definitely cannot go to bed with all these demons in my head, so…lucky you.

Anyways. I always think about writing a novel. One that would literally be the way I speak, just in print and eternal. But then I never do. I feel like I would just throw every thought on a paper and be like, here’s a sneak preview of my twisted thoughts, bon appetit bitches.

NOW IS THE TIME TO RUN. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.

Here’s thought #1 (or 7.) I think it’s important to know how to entertain yourself and enjoy your own company. On some days, i think i’m fucking awesome, and I’d rather hang out with myself than anyone else. If you can’t relate, you don’t have to finish this paragraph. If not, carry on. We aren’t all unicorns who shit glitter and prefer drinking tiki drinks from oversized gold pineapple tumblers (like me). We don’t all carry Stevia in all purses and all other surrounding crevices with the dying fear that WHAT IF THERE IS ONLY SPLENDA? It’s rough out there in the world. Imagine how a celibate priest must feel. Like…Relationship status: Send Help. And porn.
I forgot where I was going with this. I mean…Who cares? JK, I do.
Sometimes, my brain likes to pretend it’s on LSD when it’s really only continuing to immerse itself in the lingering effects of my $6 iced latte with almond milk from a few hours ago. In such instances, my thoughts go from 20-688 in 5 seconds. It’s a thing. Like the other day, I walked to work and my dress flew up kinda high in the midst of Chinatown morning food deliveries and I actually felt excited for onlookers because I know they’ve been deeply entrenched in the works of bok choy, durian and frog legs and potentially haven’t seen a female buttox in decades and then wonder if they can now live another 80 years knowing that they’ve uncovered Hanky Panky’s, and that there is indeed a god after all. I saw an 120 year old man with no teeth smile, that’s all I’m saying. Like, smile, smile. Almost slightly resurrected him from the dead kind of smirk.
And since we’re on the topic…the other day I kind of ran out of underwear and went commando for two days and it was actually fun and way better than having to drop off my shit at the laundromat. Except I hopped in a cab and the driver was super relig and I kind of felt like I was messing with his holiness. I feel like god punished him. It kind of felt like I was sneaking a bacon egg cheeseburger into his car without telling him and then spilling the bacon on his seat so that everything was now super non-holy. Desecration basically. I laughed though. And shared it globally on Snapchat because I felt like it was essential to inform a select few about my experience with nearly violating a believer.
Lights out. Barry’s in the morning. FML. If I don’t get abs on my walk home tomorrow, I’m having pancakes for breakfast and giving up on life.
Kidding. I know I’ll be having eggs with a laughing cow cheese because my life is full of adventures.

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