I never really did get what the deal with Pogs was

It’s weird which things stick with you from childhood.

Aside from his wife/my sister in law, I remember one of my brother’s girlfriends (to clarify, I have two brothers and I’m only talking about one of them here). I don’t have the necessary recollection to know if I was introduced to them or not. It could be that I never met or heard of any others. My brother’s seven years older. I heard the filtered version of everything until I was a relative adult. I remember specifically one girlfriend, and virtually no identifying details. She’s this vaguely amorphous brunette. I think she was pretty, but I was young. I had no real basis for comparison except for girls my own age. They were entirely different entities. Anyway, as a kid I’d seen enough TV to know that this was my brother’s girlfriend, and I only needed to know one, because she was gonna become a series regular. It’s probably also pertinent to note that I didn’t really watch live action TV until I was a teenager, so it was rarely relationship based. If a character had a romantic partner, that was it. They were together forever. In my mind, my brother was eventually just gonna marry this girl.

In truth, I can’t remember how old I was to be able to reverse engineer my brother’s age. I think this woman has become an amalgam of anyone he ever dated. So maybe it was one of those situations where they just replace an actor with another vaguely similar looking one. It was the 90s, all the female characters were written by men and thus only served to further the male characters’ plotlines. A simpler time. We had pogs. I don’t really remember “her” coming over for family dinners, I’m not sure if we spent much time with her. I seem to remember her being very nice, but I have no idea what “nice” means to a child. She was totally just a blip in the radar that i doubt my brother has thought of in 20+ years. For some reason though, she imprinted. I mean, no hard feelings. I hope however and whoever she is, she’s doing well.

This one won’t age well, but I remember one day thinking about how my mum went to the gym all the time. I didn’t get it. I said to her something along the lines of “Mum, why do you go to the gym all the time? You’re not fat.” And I think she started to cry. Not like an “oh, from the mouths babes” tears of joy cry, but VERY upset. I didn’t get it. My dad was confused and asked me “what did you say?” I repeated myself, entirely baffled at her reaction. Dad wasn’t happy. “That’s a very rude thing to say. Never say that again” he told me. I was like “okay”, still totally bemused. To this day, I have no fucking idea what happened. Did I say something different to what I thought I’d said? Did they just misunderstand me? I legit don’t know why my mum was so upset, and I doubt that I ever will. I’m sure they don’t remember it.

But for some reason I still remember all my childhood friends’ landline numbers.

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Inner gut o’ avoiding, baby

A friend of mine posted a quote on Facebook that was along the lines of “always trust your instincts. If something deep inside of you tells you something isn’t right about something, trust it.”

Don’t worry, it was probably better written than that, I was just paraphrasing.

I read it, thought about it for two seconds and thought hey wait, what? I can’t speak for anyone else, but my gut instincts have shit for brains. If I trusted my gut instincts, I’d never leave the house. My gut instincts are 1000% risk averse. They’re not reasonable in the slightest. They barely register context clues or a wider perspective, they’re an animalistic auto-response to stimuli.

My gut instincts tell me that anyone and everything is a threat. I am constantly in danger at all times, and my only recourse is to overanalyse the fuck out of each miniscule interaction I’m a part of.

My gut instincts have mislead my first impressions of people innumerable times. As it turns out, I often need to warm to people through understanding what smaller aspects of their personality mean as part of a larger whole.

My gut instincts tell me to run and cut ties as soon as I have an inkling of doubt in any relationship.

My gut instincts tell me that if I intervene in any public disagreement, it will result in being physically harmed.

My gut instincts tell me that any time a figure of higher status wants to talk, it’s because I’ve done something wrong.

My gut instincts tell me to solely eat fatty, protein dense food, as if we’re still living in the ice age and food scarcity is a valid concern for the vast majority of people who earn a decent wage.

My gut instincts tell me that every unknown woman sees me as a threat, and that it’s always better to wait until they engage rather than making the first move.

My gut instincts tell me that nobody is attracted to me.

My gut instincts, despite infinite evidence to the contrary, tell me not to go every time I have tickets to see live music.

My gut instincts told me not to live with my girlfriend.

My gut instincts told me I’d hate Paddington (2014).

My gut instincts tell me never to try at anything, because it’ll all just blow up in my face.

I’m not saying they’re always wrong, but it’s far less likely that they’re right than not. I don’t have good instincts. I was supremely lucky to have been born as a human being, in a time without daily life-threatening obstacles, because I’m not primed to handle adversity. Now, I’m not a total idiot. My brain can parse context, and use past experiences to gauge how likely future ones are to be threats. I’m very, very fortunate that I was taught how to analyse situations and weave logic into my decisions, because I have very little in the way of innate wisdom.

For instance, my gut instinct tells me not to write these every day, and look how far we’ve come.

A big ol’ cold pool

It’s snowing again. Like, a lot.

It’s weird to look outside and see the sheer volume of snow. If it were warmer, the snow would all be rain. Casting my eyes across the front yard- stacked maybe a metre high in places- it’s basically just a ton of water waiting for the sun, so it can piss off elsewhere. Until then, it’s just stuck there. So in some ways it’s almost like I have a temporary pool, albeit with fluffy water. Sure, it’s a pain in the arse that has little benefit and means I’ve got shovelling work to do, but also it’s kind of pretty. Then again, a ton of people who own pools don’t even use them. They just lounge around their expensive status symbol. Maybe there’s some way to make a yard full of snow cool. Could I get a couple of mates to bring loungers over, wrap up in snow gear, then sit around drinking spiked hot chocolate while we listen to chillwave? We could sit out on the porch, with the contents of a two-four submerged in the snowy yard. Oooh, we could even have one of those outdoor heaters and watch the world go by.

I think when I imagined coming to Canada, I expected I’d interact with snow a ton more. Realistically, it’s mostly an imposition. It makes walking more arduous. It’s occasionally cause for accidents. It’s ruined two of our doors so far this winter. It necessitates bringing cumbersome extra layers that are fine while outside, but as soon as you get on the subway or into the office they’re just sweat traps. Not to mention having to bring extra shoes with me everywhere because I don’t want to wear chunky boots for casual indoor strolling. Look. I know I’m never not advocating for everyone to adopt cheesy 80s futuristic style silver bodysuits, but hear me out. Slap some nanobots in those badboys, and create some kind of adaptive temperature control. No matter where you go you’re always at your ideal body temp, AND if you get abducted and forced into some kind of intergalactic adventure you’re already dressed for it.

You know, as a kid I had this deep seated belief that at any moment I could be whisked away to a fantasy world. It sounds silly, but so many of the shows/movies I watched had that whole “Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur’s Court” thing going on. I wasn’t physically prepared, but you better believe that I wouldn’t have batted an eye if some portal opened out of nowhere. I’d jump in head first. My brain had sponged up these infinite storylines to the point where part of me still thinks it’s weird that it’s never happened. Like, deep down maybe this is why I’ve never really fit in anywhere. Because there’s a place I’m supposed to be and it’s just a quick alternate dimension away. Give me all the shit you want for this, but really it’s no less silly than a lot of societal beliefs. Is the idea that I’m meant to be battling dragons or something in a mirror universe really dumber than all this anti-vaxxer wank? Or like, all that anti-abortion rhetoric? What’s more likely, that I’m destined to lead the kingdom out of darkness and into salvation? Or that scientifically proven eradication of preventable diseases is actually giving our kids autism, when the guy who claimed that has since been very debunked?

I think you all know the answer.

Oh cap tan, my cap tan

I’ve never really been a hat person.

I’ve worn a lot of hats, don’t get me wrong. The ozone layer was so thin over NZ, that growing up I had the choice between a hat or imminent cancer. I chose the hat. I wore caps, but they looked weird on my head. I used to curl the brims so tight that if I had two you’d have thought I was advertising for McDonalds. I mean, as a child I would’ve willingly advertised for McDonalds. What kid wouldn’t? Children can’t do shit about marketing. They’re not smart enough yet. I wasn’t, anyway. Smart enough or a hat person, that is. Yes, I wore them, but I never really embodied them. My head would sweat. Sometimes the plastic ribbing would stab my head. I never knew if I was supposed to tuck my ears in. I still don’t. Is there a rule?

I tried bucket hats. Or rather, I tried one bucket hat because it had an army pattern and as a kid I thought that was cool. Look, I told you I was a dumb kid. Or rather, a kid. I thought the army and guns and killing were cool. Consequently, I thought wearing an army bucket hat would make me cool, even though I knew bucket hats were fundamentally uncool. I was not a cool kid. The bucket hat did not last long.

At a concert once I borrowed my friend’s fedora. Yes, it was a literal fedora, not a trilby. I had a photo wearing it that I used as my OkCupid profile picture for several years. I also had literal neckbeard. I thought it made me look distinguished, rebellious and cool. I was none of those things. I also didn’t keep the hat, it was his. I wanted it, but never brought myself to get one of my own. I wanted to be a hat person. I was not a hat person.

A friend and I once went to Chicago for Lollapalooza. It was a big deal, going to a massive overseas concert. Summer in Chicago was awesome. We drank and feasted and melted our fucking faces off in the sun. So I got a hat. I had fond memories of that fedora photo, but I didn’t realise fedoras and trilbys were different things, so I ended up buying a trilby. It did not suit me like I thought it suited me. I still did not look cool. I still was not a hat person. I got too drunk and accidentally lost in a mosh pit. Really though, nothing of value was lost.

Does anyone remember those animal hat things that were in vogue for a while? They were kind of like winter hats, but with conjoined mittens. Wait, I have the internet. They looked like this. Anyway, I thought it was the height of comedy to wear the hat tilted forwards so it looked like its face was my face. Or rather, that I was some form of goddamn chimera with a fuzzy panda head but human jaw/body. I have multiple photos of this, each with diminishing returns. A hat still did not make me cool.

My girlfriend has a bunch of hats. Big floppy sun hats, the kind you’d wear to The Races. There’s one with blue and white concentric circles, and another that’s a bold yellow. I didn’t steal her hat per se, but I sure as hell wear her yellow hat a ton more than she does. I’ve worn her yellow hat enough that it’s become somewhat iconic as my hat, even though it’s very clearly hers. So in some sense I’ve stolen its essence, which as we all know is a big part of fashion. Being Key. It’s vampires all the way down. I “stole” her hat knowing full well that it wasn’t a cool hat, that it did not make me cool and that any of this was secondary to the mass sun protection it’s provided. In all of the kerfuffle and semiotic layers, the juxtaposition of this hat not suiting me whatsoever and the candour with which I wear it almost has made it suit me. It’s the closest I’ve ever come to being a hat person, but I’m still not a hat person.

But at least I’m smarter than a child now.

Some kind of class warfare

It’s been years since I last played Dungeons and Dragons.

I’m not saying this as if I grew up on it. Sure, I was incredibly taken with fantasy tropes. I got into King Arthur in a big way from around age 7-9. It all seemed so terribly exciting. Knights and dragons and magic, oh my. Guns and artillery seemed way less cool than going medieval. Warcraft forever, Command and Conquer for never, or something. Had I known anything about D&D, I probably would’ve fallen hard from an early age. But I didn’t, so I didn’t. Towards the end of high school, a friend decided he wanted to get into it and I figured I might as well try it out. Turns out I did like it heaps. The idea of interactive storytelling was a blast. It was neat to see character progression, overcoming obstacles and an arcane bestiary. Right up my alley.

Not only that, but everything was so meticulously categorised and thorough. As someone with the kind of brain that obsessed over Pokémon, their evolutions, movesets, typing, etc, it was my kind of crack. I’d already been very into Magic the Gathering, so Wizards of the Coast had me hooked. D&D was only a sidestep away. I loved learning about the different stats, classes, feats, races and spells. All the monsters were cool as shit. I couldn’t wait to explore it all, and spent hours making my first character. I remember going as a sorcerer, ’cause I wanted a familiar and spellcasting seemed neat. I also remember my spells being so terrible that my crossbow was my usual recourse in combat. It just did more damage. Probably more me doing a poor job creating a character than anything. I mean hey, character creation has always been one of the most defining “characteristics” of the game. It’s intricate and endlessly customisable. It’s fun making a character, because you get to be whoever you want to be. Wanna be a gnome cleric? You got it dude. An orc ranger? Go ahead. A half-elf barbarian? Hack away. You be you.

I was chatting today with a friend, and casually mentioned D&D stats in relation to real life. It’s kind of a fun thought experiment to imagine yourself aligned with the character creation sheet. What sort of stats would you have? What class would you be? I feel like the easiest part is working out your weakest stat. I have no question that my dexterity is a lost cause. I’m clumsy and uncoordinated. I don’t have fine motor skills, I tend to force my way through things in an ungainly fashion. Mostly I get there, but without finesse. Most of my stats would probably be pretty average. I manage most activities without excelling at anything. I’m above average smart without nearing genius status. I definitely lack street smarts, but I wouldn’t say I’m totally without wisdom. I’m reasonably hardy, so my constitution would be decent. I also catch most any cold that goes around. I’m strong enough, but not totally musclebound. I’m charismatic, but also weird. So I guess I’m charismatic in certain situations.

I feel, if anything, I’d probably be some kind of druid. Not because I have any attunement to nature, but because it’s a fairly versatile but non-specialised class. They have a wide assortment of skills to adapt to most any situation, but they’re not super effective at any of them. They can shapeshift into all manner of natural forms, which is pretty neat. Need to tank hits? Why not shift into a bear? Need to get in some damage quickly? Sure, just be a wolf. Need to get the fuck away? Transform into a horse and get the fuck out of there. They can heal, but not as well as clerics. They can spellcast, but not with the same efficacy as a wizard. They have survival skills, but not to the same extent as a ranger would. In life, I manage to get by mostly fine. Concurrently, I’m not pulling ahead in any area. A classic journeyman. I have experiences aplenty, but rarely tales to astound and amaze. Shit happens and I’m there for it, but I’m rarely the hero. A druid seems like an apt role.

Ugh, I could really do with playing another campaign. The last time I tried to make a druid, things didn’t end well.

I guess I must be having fun

I don’t read much these days, so writing fiction is tough. The expressive vocabulary isn’t there to fall back on. Still, I had a scene in my head that needed to go somewhere.

She was on her way downtown, meeting up with an ex she hadn’t seen in ages. They parted on amicable terms, and had been pretty close since. Sorta. When they were both single, it was great. They could share space with someone else that knew them. They’d been intimate. The intimacy was no longer fiery, but the compassion lingered. Then she’d gotten a new partner, and things had still been fine. They kept hanging out, it was nice to have a male friend who wasn’t her boyfriend. She could confide in him, be there as support for his dating endeavours. It felt ideal. Then her ex got a new girlfriend. It was exciting, but weird. Something hung over their ex-ship that hadn’t before. They drifted apart, saw less and less of each other. Tonight was their first time together in almost a year. They were just gonna watch a movie at his. It was an excuse to hang out, movies and snacks. Would it be like old times? So comfortable with each other? Or were they trying to revive a time that’d passed? Had they sailed beyond a point of connection? Was she just using him for easy emotional labour? Or was that why he kept her around? A friendship born on wanting to feel needed? She hadn’t thought twice about him for months, but post breakup, he popped into her head. Ugh, typical. She shook the thoughts from her head and bounded down the subway entrance stairs. A new song kicked in, strumming bass and bouncy synths. She smiled and cast her mind back.

She was cute. Cute? Cute seemed reductive. She was handsome. Striking? All sharp tangents and bold lines. She was confident and comfortable and smiling. She looked like she wanted to be there. That was nice. They’d been chatting for hours and it all just fit, y’know? She was funny, and probably out of his league. Out of his league? What did that even mean anymore? Did it ever mean anything? At 28, his thoughts constantly questioned rules and structures. This talk of “leagues” was basically just “stay in your lane” by any other name. The boxes only fit if you let them. She was talking about the suburb where she grew up. Remote. All seaside, quaint shops and fishing piers. As a kid she’d bike down to the stores with her friends. On Friday afternoon her mum would give her ten bucks for them to get ice creams. He could see it in her eyes, animated, eyebrows going like crazy. She was right back there. One time, she said, she told her mum that Lindsay and Karen were coming, but didn’t invite Karen. Her and Lindsay split the tenner and got chocolate thick shakes. There was something mischievous about it, taboo. They’d pulled into the park, sat under the big maple and held hands, giggling. Backs to the world. They’d taken more than their share, but they were sharing it together. It felt like they’d earned it. Like it was okay, sometimes. Then they’d thought about Karen back at home. They’d make it up to her sometime. It was kinda nice to do stuff for people, but sometimes it was nice to have someone to yourself. He smiled. It was great just hearing her talk. He marvelled at how vivid her memory was, how open and free she was being a couple of hours after meeting him. A waiter walked past and his date caught his eye. “I’ll have another one, thanks.” She looked back at her date and quirked her head. He nodded. “Make that two. Cheers.” The waiter walked off. She turned back to her date. “What’s your favourite musical memory?” He’d never thought about it. He wanted to give a good answer, sound cool or deep. She told stories well, he could too. Out of his league. He laughed, and it came to him. He cleared his throat. “My father used to spend a lot of time in his workshop. He’d throw on a record and work on little projects. He wasn’t great at it, but I think he just needed to get out of his head. Maybe it was an excuse to listen to music. Who knows? He’d crank it up loud and dance to himself, but time and time he’d come back to his favourite song. Talking Heads – “This Must Be The Place”.”

She walked onto the platform, and the lyrics kicked in. “Home is where I want to be/Pick me up and turn me around”. Images flashed in her brain. Her ex in the kitchen, uncorked bottle of red on the table. They’d supped deep, and gorgeous smells were wafting into the lounge. Garlic and onions, a rich tomato scent. Counters covered in flour. Pasta night. She was idly singing along, just watching him work. He loved to cook and she let him. Her days were hard enough, and he was nice to come home to. Home. She spent so much time staying over. Would they ever move in together? Did she even want that? She loved her own bed, her space, her things staying where she left them. He was a sweet guy, a little daft sometimes, but kind. Always kind. She was back on the platform, watching times tick along the info board. Her head bobbed along to the music. Four minutes. She could wait four minutes.

He sat, deep in thought. This song, every time it threw him right back to his father and his workshop. His father wasn’t always kind, but he cared. In his own way. In his workshop though, he was lost to the music. “OOOOOoh!” His father would bellow. “You got light in your eeeeeyes”. Back on the platform, his heels rising and falling in time. He smiled, eyes creasing. He looked up to the Westbound platform. A lady stood wearing a long yellow pea coat. Yellow? Sandy? Mustard. Definitely mustard. Why did English have so many words? Her eyes were closed and she was bobbing her head, lost to the music. Her eyes started to open and he averted his gaze, blushing. He was lucky he had someone to go home to. He couldn’t live the single life again. He’d forgotten how to meet new people. What were the steps? The song wormed its way back into his head. “And you’re standing here beside me/I love the passing of time”. He darted his eyes back, just for a split second. Her eyes met his, he darted away again. He closed his eyes and focused on the song. He mouthed the words along with it “Cover up and say goodnight, say goodnight.”

She hadn’t needed to think about guys in so long. She was comfortable alone, independent. But for some reason she felt like she had to be in a relationship. It wasn’t even her thought, one of those shoulds that society threw her way. She liked being alone. She could stay up late, sleep in. On her own time. Before the breakup, her boyfriend had been so needy. He was going through a hard time, but when hadn’t he been? She’d helped. She’d tried, anyway. You can only help for so long with someone who won’t accept it. A guy going East looked her way for just a second. He looked nervous. Probably needy too. ShouldsFuck “should“, she thought. “Home, is where I want to be”. Byrne’s vocals spoke her mind. Did she even want to see her ex? Was this just another should? A sudden rumble. There was a train coming. Had it been four minutes already?

A rumbling dispersed his thoughts. His train pulled into the station. “I guess that this must be the place” The song’s eponymous line, lining up impeccably. It was almost cinematic. Life imitates art kind of thing. The train came to a halt and the doors opened. He stepped in, still mouthing along. “I find you or you find me.” He had this strange compulsion to look back to the woman in the mustard pea coat. The motion of her lips caught his eye. They were moving in time with his own. “If someone asks, this is where I’ll be, where I’ll be oh!” His eyes widened.

She stared, transfixed, as her mouth kept moving. “Oh! Sing into my mouth”. Nervous man looked shocked, but she couldn’t blame him. What were the odds? This was uncanny. He was standing straight up looking right back, lips mirroring her own. “You got a face with a view.”

Astonished, he hardly noticed the chimes as the doors closed. He simply continued staring, mouthing along. How many songs existed in the world? How many songs were people listening to right at this moment? Hell, Talking Heads had a huge discography on their own. The lyrics poured into his ears as he imagined the possibilities. The train began to move, while he couldn’t. Stone still, but for his lips. “I’m just an animal looking for a home”.

For the songs not only to be the same, but to start at exactly the same time. Was that statistically impossible? The train rolled away, but the guy hadn’t even taken a seat. The moment held him fast to his feet. The words went straight from his lips to her brain. “Share the same space for a minute or two”. He moved out of sight, but not out of mind. Dumbfounded, her lips stopped while her cognisance reeled. Almost dizzy, a flurry of thoughts: Where was she going? Why was she going? Where did she want to be? Did she want to be there? Was there any reason that she didn’t? She liked her ex, right? Did there have to be a big reason? Their history was good. Familiarity was comfort, wasn’t that enough? What was she even worried about? He had a good heart and a big laugh. Maybe she’d pick up a bottle of red on her way over.

He came back to himself and found a seat, still caught by the moment. The outro plugged along merrily. What did his dad always say? “I’m home, and I’ll drink to that.” Home. His wife was back home. She’d been working all day. Tons of commissions lately, but when it rained, it poured. She’d welcome a break for the night. Maybe they could go out to the park with a blanket, sit under the big maple. They’d grab chocolate thick shakes and a mickey of Kahlúa. They could reminisce about warm memories and think about the future. Together. Sometimes it was nice to have someone for yourself. Real connection wasn’t easy to find. You had to take it when it came, right?

You get what you pay for ’round here

I’m in a rush, so this is gonna be disconnected and weird. Quick dispatches and snippets.

I finished season one of Sex Education on Netflix. It was swell. For something that involves an amount of full frontal, it was quite sweet. I liked that it didn’t put sex on a pedestal, but really is just a thing we do. Maybe that’s the kind of magic you get from a predominantly female writer’s room. The casting was quite well done. Gillian Anderson was, of course, fantastic. The leads all inhabit their roles pretty well. One of the central characters has a very touching storyline that doesn’t let him off easily. Like anything Netflix it was mostly good, but also nothing spectacular. It’s fun, harmless and enjoyable enough.

My fave, James Blake, just dropped a new album. Of course, being Blake, it’s lush and gorgeous. Of course, being Blake, I already have tickets to go see him. I haven’t listened enough to form a super solid opinion, but it has a ton of very pretty ballads. A lot less in the way of challenging electronic material. Maybe because he’s happy in LA dating (one of my other faves (Jameela Jamil). If you’re at all interested in his older material, Vulture today did a terrific guide. His new album is streaming everywhere, and I figure it’s worth your time.

I was wondering today what I’d do if I had a kid that nobody liked. If for some reason they were a social martyr who only served as a playground punchline. I think back to being a kid. There was a girl who nobody liked. She was weird, which is really just another way of saying socially awkward, but children aren’t great with polysyllabic words. I had this theory that it was as simple as her wearing glasses. Kids teased her for wearing them, and consequently stayed away from her. I distinctly remember children being all “hey, don’t talk to Agatha (not her real name), you’ll get Agatha Disease”. So she never really learned how to connect to others. It made her even more alienated. A bunch of people got press ganged into spending time with her, but it never lasted long. Kids aren’t exactly known for being emotionally graceful. Imagine having a kid like that. What do you do?

How do you teach kids to be cool or liked by other kids? I’m sure as hell not up with what Kids These Days are into. How could I, in good conscience, spout off shit like “just be yourself and your true goodness will shine through. Being herself was what got her into that mess, unless my glasses theory holds weight. If my kid was just fundamentally unlikable by their peers, that seems like a nightmare scenario. I can’t imagine how gutted you’d feel for them, knowing how it would stunt their social development and how straight up unhappy it’d make them. Brutal. I definitely used to stow a finger in my previous page in Choose Your Own Adventure books, but it’s hard to get a mulligan on a kid, y’know. Especially ’cause it’s probably your fault in some way, whether genes, values or learned behaviour.

With my girlfriend half a world away for a few months, I think I want to start experimenting a little. There’s some stuff she’s just not comfortable doing, and I’ve never wanted to pressure her into it. Boundaries are important, but mine happen to be vastly wider than hers and it’s time for me to start exploring to find what I’m really into. If I wasn’t explicitly clear, I’m talking about cooking and eating offal. I think back to our trip to London. I had liver and onions and loved it. A while ago my Brazilian friend prepared barbecued chicken hearts. They were delicious. My foie gras experience reminded me of the whole liver thing and reignited my desire to dive deep into all new tastes and textures. Also it shits me on some level that there are so many animal parts that get tossed or go to waste. Why not use as many parts as possible? Liver in particular is known to be very healthy, with all kinds of great benefits. When I say “known”, I clearly mean that I’ve heard people parrot that, but I couldn’t name a single one. It’s probably true.

And that’s all s(he) wrote. I’m done. Come back tomorrow or something. Or don’t. I won’t know the difference, since y’all are anonymous. Byeeeeee.