This Gives Comfort Food A Whole New Meaning.
This morning I became sidetracked reading someone else’s blog — someone who’s poetic and dreamy and introspective and harsh — every bit the writer I’d like to be if I took myself more seriously. A traveler.
I’d share it with you, but I selfishly want to keep it for myself.
Hey, buddy, life isn’t fair.
Don’t you hate it when people say that to you? Like I don’t know.
Anyway, now I don’t have enough time to write a proper post before leaving for work. And the only reason I’m wasting your time at all is because I’ve had an epiphanal moment I feel I need to share. Are you ready for it?
Here it is:
When I can’t travel, I replace the desire with food.
Was that obvious to everyone but me?
I absorb myself in discovering new recipes, cooking it, tasting it, eating it, washing it down with red wine. I hope this doesn’t mean I’m psychologically unsound.
Though, would that really surprise anyone?
Oh, and here is that blog I don’t want to share. I’m only telling you because sometimes life can be fair, if I can help it, and I don’t like making people curious without providing answers.
It seems unnecessarily mean, you know?
And now, because I’m here (not traveling), I’m going to get ready for work and then fully embrace my culture by buying a sausage cheese biscuit on my way to the office.
I never said I’d pretend to be above it all.
(Is this post as confusing as I think it might be? Welcome to my unedited, pre-breakfast, post-coffee mind. It’s a scary place.)