Happy hour. Dollar oysters.

I don’t need no stinkin’ date.

The happy hour cocktail is pear bourbon sour. Don’t like bourbon.

I do like this.


I write on paper, in a leather bound journal of handmade paper. It has a lock.


Funny. This is old school. Normally, I’d take a picture. Just ink and paper. Here is an oyster.


I’ve been sad.

But one of the bartender shuckers is easy on the eyes. So, maybe there’s hope. I’m not quite dead.

Having fried artichokes. I can pretend I am healthy by eating vegetables.

Maybe this becomes my refuge.




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