So, I haven't blogged in a long time, which is fine because nobody reads me, Thank God. Why is it that sensitive souls think about war and music and love and hate, and food. Always Food.
Oh that I could justify getting cable so I could sit mindlessly in front of the food network ; Alton Brown explaning the mechanics of Meringue, while Giada orgasms over another bean and tomato salad.
Could we have more vietnamese restaurants in St Paul? Have I frequented any of them yet? Could Boca Chica move to the Burbs, or India Palace next door?
Simply hearing the word "Curry" makes me crave a warm bitter in a pub, and a spicy vindaloo, that I miss. Jacket potatoes and beans have replaced grilled cheese, and Branston Pickle is nowhere to be found.
There are not enough hours in the day to accomplish all that needs to be done. Taxes will be due in a couple months and some of us owe the government a lot of money. The need to buy new shiney mac products hang over our heads, and what can we do about it. Nothing.
Extremely profound thoughts enter my mind and finally, marathonning and die Schone Mullerin make sense. Coffee has replaced the blood flowing through my veins and trying to understand what the cat is actually thinking is becoming possible. Lent is looming while brooding thoughts of recent Advent soul searching is fresh in my mind. Can I explain this?
Mangos are on sale, but trying to decide if cutting around the stoney pit is worth the juicy flesh is a struggle. I eat apples because they are less work than their juicey citrus friends, and leftovers in the fridge are eaten until they are gone, for moral and financial reasons.
Music is now a career, not an art. The Love is taken out for financial gain, while artistry is pushed aside for the good of the group. Doesn't anybody understand a musical phrase? Schubert's legato berceuse echoes in my cavernous throat grasping for air to float effortlessly to the inevitable conclusion.
May is around the corner, so are days of warmth, nightly running, and Iced Tea.