Pancake Chips

I was a chef-in-training, waiting on my final test. I worked at RGIS. I was preparing a huge fourth-of-July brunch for all these people that worked with me. I made, homemade, corned beef and cabbage (not sauerkraut, *cabbage*), appetizers (tiny open-faced roast beef sandwiches with horseradish dill sauce, mini tacos, and fun-shapes vegetable tray), and a breakfast selection. The breakfast selection was the best, I made pancake chips (they were blueberry pancakes made correctly, and then baked in the oven) and watermelon stars and fresh bacon that was perfect. I was a goddess. I even made orange juice from hand with a squeezer. The only thing was, every time I made something, I had to count every single piece and audit it for inventory. So if I used the milk, I would have to count how much milk was there before I used it, and then after, and count all the other milks in the fridge. Oh yeah. It was fucked up.

The other night I was in Macedonia, driving by my old place, when I saw this girl Jennifer that used to live down the street from me. I said hi but she didn't recognize me, and when I told her who I was, she said that she had heard I had died. I laughed, and told her no. Of course not. She was wearing a pale-green Jack Daniel's polo just like the one I have. But it was smaller. She let me use her bathroom, and then told me I had better leave because she heard they were coming looking for me because I was supposed to be dead. I got the feeling that she was some sort of zombie all of a sudden, and ran out. The whole neighborhood was infested with zombies.

When I was laying in bed the other night, I got the notion that everytime I took a breath it turned into furniture. I was laying next to SL and several pieces, such as an armoire, a sofa table, and what looked like an antique roll-top desk. But it could have just been faux vintage.

I really should go back to doing drugs.