May 7, 2016:

Cops and EMTs in blue, badges glinting in dappled sunlight. Paper placemats billow in the breeze. Mrs. Shades and Porkpie counts out twenties from a wad the size of Breaking Bad. The sophisticated middle-aged hipster and her girlfriend stare boldly, machisma challenge: You think you can handle us, whitebread? Well I could, I suppose. But right now the tallest and prettiest of the cute young busgirls holds my unrequited devotion.

My friends the ferals emerge from bushes to wait patiently just at arm's reach. Servers and busgirls point and talk: the cats are unwilling to get close to anyone else, but they'll take chicken from my fingers. General amazement reigns.

Sipping soda, watching girls. I should leave, I should work, I should exercise. I should at least hit the grocery store. Tomorrow. Today I'll drink water and text. There's money in the bank, the sun is out, the breeze is warm. All things not this sweet sunny moment can kiss my commie ass.


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