A Brunch of Strawberries

Here I am.

Abolish Sundays.
How is everyone doing?
I'm dressed well and cleaning my apartment.
That is to say, I'm making the apartment look more like a messy two bedroom and less like some hasbeen bachelor's pad.

Yesterday morning.
There's a brunch (whatever that is) at Cora's.
Because Bussey is going to some part of Newfoundland that people in St. John's only hear of, and never actually go to.
I have no idea where it is. South coast, I think.
Now, first of all, assholes, yes, I was late showing up.
But, only for beverages. I was on time for the ordering of food.
That's the first thing anyone mentions when I try to re-tell this.
Me and my predictable behaviour.
Anyway, I order a waffle, alright? With strawberries on it.
We're a table of nine.
She eventually brings out everyone else's food.
And I'm sitting there.
Everyone starts eating.
I'm waiting.
Eventually, and I'm talking ten minutes later, she swings by our table, looks over the crowd, sees that someone at her table isn't eating, and she takes out her pad and starts looking at it.
This is a shitty waitress, everyone (a lot of the time it's the cook's fault).
I call to her, "Waffles!"
Anyway, whatever. I get them.
I start picking at my strawberries.
I glance at Butler's plate, and it's empty.
French toast, sausages. All gone.
That's how long I was waiting.
And I'm so shocked, I exclaim, "You're fucking done?!" with no sense of volume control.
There was an elderly couple sitting very close to us.
Two of em.
Or a 'deuce,' as they say in the industry.

In other exhalations, today is international weed smoking day.
I only learned this after my stint in Banff.
...Where I lived with potheads.
Alright, I'm gonna go pack a bowl.
And play 'Marco-Polo' with my cordless phone.