Friday, August 9, 2013

LA Stories: Bacon n' Noir

As I mix my morning cocktail of fake-maple-sugar and fake-regular oatmeal from the "Free Oatmeal" drawer at Warner Bros., my mind wanders, remembering breakfasts of days gone bye... Real Food. French toast. Muffins. Bacon. Eggs. Sausage. And on the matter of sausage... Every man I've ever dated has claimed that he can make the perfect omelet, yet, if memory serves, they've never served it to me. I'm not baby crazy, but a lady likes to know a man can handle eggs. Maybe I should freeze some, in case I never do get that breakfast in bed. The hot water seeps into the last of my refined super-processed mecha-oats and it's time to stop dreaming and start typing. Back to a cold cube, a cold chair and a colder blue-gray data entry screen- where dreams and pigs in blankets go to die. My legs lock, unwilling to lead me back to a gray world when they're longing to wrap themselves languidly around other legs in a sun-gold land of sheets, pillows, tousled hair and waffles. ...I stare at the disposable cup full of disposable breakfast and release the heavy sigh I've been holding in my slowly-emerging ribcage. The cup is half full, but I already know I'm still hungry.

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