The Tiramisu in You

The rain was falling delicately in the stormy aftermath, and I didn't know short hair could get sooooo wet.

Yes. My hair is Gone, and now I look like a functional member of society. However, I enjoy finding ways to alienate myself through dress code and hygiene. My lack of hair atop the crown is rivaled by the blossoming beard-age on my chiny chin chin.

Razor Bumps ;)

But the night was still peaceful, and no societal perception of hygienic appearance or disillusionment could take that away. The Jazz band blazed in the background, and although I sip on the same cup of coffee I've ordered hundreds of times it tastes a little bit better tonight.

I walked here from class where I watched a film about the food industry in America. The corporations profit from the debts of chicken farmers, while the mothers fight to prevent e-coli deaths. What the hell is in that cheeseburger I ate last week? Well. I used the bathroom. I'm here a week later eating tiramisu, but a young boy named Kevin can't say the same.

As if the war of Shameless vagabondism wasn't enough, I have to think about my food now?

"God. Bless this meal I'm about to eat..."

Now it's just a moment, and I wont be reminded until my ass touches the cold porcelain.

My Father is here now. I treat him to my latte delight, although he is not partial to chocolate. It gives him gas, as he texts his estranged object of affection. My dad texting a girl? I drunk texted a girl in undergrad school at a party to see if she wanted to make out. She said no, but we're still good friends. Parties are overrated, and I've been celibate for two years.

I wonder how much corn was in the cup of tiramisu I ate? It's Italian, not American right? Imported? I'll trudge in ignorance. Deadly pastries are the least of my priorities.