Seat Yourself

I ate at the Yellowbelly yesterday.

Pete and Turpin followed me there (they follow me everywhere).

I had the lamb.

If there's lamb on the menu, I'll often have the lamb.

Because there's no taste quite like youth.

Our waitress terrified me.

Because I was attracted to her.

And she acted as though she was attracted to me.

That's terrifying.

In a pitfall similar to the one that strippers hurtle me into, waitresses are obliged to seem more endeared to me than they actually are.

Which makes sense to me.

I would do the same thing in the same situation.

So, she skirted in and out of my life, making sure the fries were okay.

At one point I dropped my fork.

"I'll get you another one," she offered.

"She's the one for you," Pete said.

He's probably right.

They all are.

This song.

This song.

And this song played on the radio while we (I) dined.

I tipped her $4.12*.

Whenever I buy coffee, the lid is never fastened properly.
Whether I secure it or the barrista (speaking of being right for me) does.

And it's never apparent right away.
It's always a warm dawning that occurs for me.

Usually on my crotch.

*I picked this amount because I wanted it to work out to an even 20 bucks.

But I fucked up the math and it turned out to be 19-something.