As I candidly continue from another curious day:
I try to never order the same thing twice in a row at a restaurant.
I do go to restaurants time and again. I resist mightily the urge to stab contemporary clientele with soiled utensils. Soiled utensils are the best if you go through with murderous intentions since it infuses victims with your silava. This liquid, which flows freely from a crevasse beneath your lolling tongue, is like a tattoo you force upon another person. You can even do without the cutlery, stand erect or slumping slightly on your table, and begin distance spitting. Practising beforehand at home is recommended. The targets you tattoo will be revolted, but, as your spittle soaks into their souls, they come under your control. Soon, after a few weeks of patronizing various cafés, you’ll lead an phalanx of stolen bodies. Victory! The death of this decaying culture is dripping from your moistened lips.
I am not the cunt I used to be, so I don’t insist on ordering radically different plates everytime I frequent a place. The stagnation that is going to Polo every time I attend to my Prague itch wore me down for years and I feel a bit of shame for it. The majority of our evenings there saw us ordering Křidelky. Those severed chicken limbs never seemed to taste better. Tradition it was, time and again. Fuck um. I didn’t even break the ritual last I was in the smoke fouled bar.
Spain is a difficult thorax. Various pintxos scream at you from upon counters. They are naked as your favourite bare-breasted wench you dilly in your dreams. Variations occur, but were I to sit and think of every pintxo place I’d visited in the time stretching out backwards from immediately before I began writing this bit of absurdity to crawling out of the bubbling morass of the ancestral swamp, I’d come up with no more than seven valid genres of the accursed foodstuff. I’m telling you that Spain has been designed to mock freedom of choice. The rulers now die the flame death. I choke on my own vomit gurgling at them.
Whatever comes next in this life, and many things do, some unexpected and some not, I shall remember during my next restaurant visit to order a cream-filled ocelot kidney.
