When I realize I didn’t eat the undercooked chicken at the barbecue
velma on the streets but daphne in the sheets
Orko on the streets but Slimer in the sheets
Yesterday was my 8th wedding anniversary and we went out to a wonderful dinner where I snacked on chicharonnes, spicy garlic barbecue shrimp, braised beef ribs in a mushroom barley risotto, bourbon cocktails, hoppy ales, and homemade blueberry ice cream covered in white chocolate chips.
Today, right now, my 80 year old dad is unconscious but recovering from successful open heart surgery to replace his aortic valve and perform a bypass, and I snacked on pancakes, peanut butter crackers, fudge, an entire one pound bag of carrots, chocolate sprinkles eaten out of my palm like a fucking animal, blistery microwaved veggie hot dogs dipped in ketchup, and straight chocolate syrup (just a little sip, really).
My calorie counting app is freaking the fuck out.
EMI quality control room, 1965
(Source: pipecaviar, via madthoughts)
Me, working in Excel.