In all honesty, nothing says warm lazy weekend afternoon in Marin County better than a tunafish sandwich. It is, in all probability, as normative and epicurean as the place is capable of.
Languorously I bite into the spongy white bread, savouring the parts where the Sriracha chili sauce has dyed and mushified it; oh, exquisite!
"Es el sabor auténtico de la gente de clase media!"
And I'm surrounded by cigar smokers.
There is no greater joy!
I have explained to a friend that the sure-fire way to lose weight and return to his boyish figure is to get cheap sandwiches from the local convenience store for his lunch, and spend all day high as a kite on caffeine.
I myself swill tea from the moment I get there till when I stumble onto the bus on my way back to civilization.
Consequently, I am reasonably trim, and full of piss and vinegar.
Quite capable of dealing with the drear of Marin.
And her stodgy troglodytes.
Someone left some cookies on top of the refrigerator at work.
This alleviates some of the occupational fruss.
They were red coloured.
Pudding after tuna.
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