Onglet.

Oui. Shit oui.

These are low fire days and once--not a week ago, okay maybe two, I felt one of those mortal convictions one has (e.g. "I will throw up if I crawl back to religion...or to so and so..."), and believed it was impossible to live without those encumbrances. Eh.

I've been stocking shelves at a grocery store which is hardly as dehumanizing as it sounds. Truthfully I don't care any longer what I do for money. As long as it ends in money, and after money the work is there to make more money I guess it's just shoving verbs at nouns and waiting for the managerial compliments to roll in. They roll in like hatemail, and I get 20% off pretty much everything, save for The Pittsburgh Post Gazette, which is hardly worth a verbal gripe--certainly not worth typing, though nevertheless...

After years of buying the Gray Gal--it's price expands as it grows ever smaller, I don't even wince (outwardly) anymore when paying the floor price for the, geez, there really is no nickname for The Gazette. Malnourished. People definitely see it in the deep end of my gaze, which has gained a troublesome opacity in the last year, the concoction of which involves being willfully depressed, sleeping little and literally eating oily mud along the side of the turnpike between residences. I can't help it, I love Pennsylvania.

Today was another grand dream. I got slightly high the moment I woke up, and walked the dog. I was nearly late for work. I was 15 minutes late. This evening I made some flank steaks in the cast iron skillet with spring onions and almond romesco. Oh shit yeah: corn on the the cob. I tell you, if Chanel could just bottle it she'd be famous all over again. But then it wouldn't feel quite like this.

Forget what I just said.

Ella, sensing my dolor at Frick Park today, acts out one of my absolute favorite scenes from Paths of Glory.