I'm not feeling well, chickies. I'm on day three of an eight day stretch at work and already my arches ache and my toes burn, and I feel like I'm coming down with something. Nothing too bad, I can't hear and my face hurts, but as far as colds go- this ain't nothing. The girls (my wee pretty sisters) and I went and cashed in our Christmas mani/pedi gift cards today (Thanks, Mama!) so the feet are slightly more attractive and feel a little better. I love a pedicure. I always feel like an ugly man going to a whore when I go get one, because generally my feet are just those things I bang the ground with, but the ladies there touch them gently with their very own hands and speak softly in Vietnamese.
Soon I will be flying all the way across the country to visit my best friend who is not related to me by blood, and the thought of that is enough to get me to straighten my weary shoulders and put my squash blossom nose to the grindstone. A week off on hourly wage is a quarter of my monthly gone, but a week to see his face again and find my girl side and serve no man- I'll work every minute till then for that and grin like a gator while I do it.
Normally when I get sick I reach for the comfort foods, those foods that have a maximum of salt, fat, and sugar per gram of white flour (and if you know me you know this is not how I eat). Yes the macaroni and cheese, yes the cereal and milk, yes and yes again to the m&ms mixed in a bowl with roasted nuts and mini bagel chips! Cookies! Butter! Buttered cookies I shit you not, somehow it's all good when one is puny and there is a weight on the chest. I have no time for delicious excesses now, I have shifts to work. Eight days on, two days off, a double, a shift, a double on Valentine's Day. Ahem. A VD double. Son. of. a. bitch.
So soup is simmering, like it should. It has pumpkin, carrots, celery, onions, oh so much garlic, roasted tomatoes, red bell peppers (no, I won't be making this soup for you, H.) that I charred my own damn self over the gas burner, and sweet white beans. This soup may very well save my life. I hope I like it, I made enough for seven brides and seven brothers. Wish me luck and big tips, my friends. When all this is done I'll sleep like the dead.
p.s.
Last week a customer slapped me on the ass and motor boated my tits. I think that deserves more than 20%, don't you?
