Sunday, July 31, 2022


Home at last after the workweek. A cup of a stimulating hot beverage, and a cookie. It is crunchy, it is chocolatey, it is sweet. And it tastes like sawdust. Because it is gluten-free.
No, I did not buy these cookies. She did. My apartment mate is sometimes culinarily optimistic, and like a crow; on occasion a pretty package will catch her eye.
Gluten-free. I wonder if the bakers are unvaxxed and hug dolphins.
Do they wear colourful Guatamalan hippie rags?
Are they spiritual?

If I had a fry-o-lator, I'd double dip and bread some bacon strips and nuke them to get that taste out of my mouth.

Maybe I should have a second one?

I think my apartment mate needs reading specs. She's Cantonese American, and normally people like her think that gluten-free is weird crap for crazy white people. I'm a crazy white people, but she ate most of them, so she didn't buy them for me. Perhaps she's trying to figure out how we think?
Yeah. Um. For gluten-free, I could have stayed in Marin.

There's tonnes of hippie food there.

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