The waiter at that place was telling me about Sartre and some other stuff, and I was sitting there, belly roundly full, pants unbuttoned, sluggard breath and all that, just stuffed to the gills. And I had to stay awake, after having elevated my blood sugar to a dangerous level, had to stay awake for a car trip, because I was the biographer-of-choice and of record for Mil Lesions. I eventually hobbled towards my car, with the people saying that dessert was almost ready, and I don't even look back, but yell, "I'll be back before you get the whipped cream onto the pie". I imagined they would either broil the poor misbegotten pie, or use a gas torch on it to toast the top of it.
Which I always think tastes like death must taste like, not that I've tasted death. But still, there are people that think I just keep dying over and over again, because of how the media does the news. People would hear that and try to smoosh it into their own little wheelhouse of familiars, and they keep thinking that I just died.
Nope. Just busy writing for the dirt sheets.
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