sturm und drag

I've been feeling literally under the weather; the sky hangs thickly over the earth. At work the gingerbearded sous-chef limps around, bares the black spreading on his foot where he dropped a bar of chocolate ("it was a big one; twenty-two pounds"). Soon, soon, I will no longer have occasion to explain with a wink, "The kitchen already split the order for you; this way you won't fight!", nor will a bepotted subaltern clang behind me, "Atrás mami, atrás!" The kitchen's Dominicans, having recently hinted at perspicacity in a charming Dickensian sort of way ("Hot one day, cold one day...make sick!"; "You sick? No...iss the people down here. They mothafuckas!"), vying to replace the maliens of my Paris restaurant in my heart/blog, remain altogether too maladroit and stout. The sous-chefs transcend race by amiably remarking on the similarities between the dishwashers and certain domestic animals, notably cats (Felix; in fairness, in name only) and hamsters (Hector). As this last ambled by, Chef Jeff offered him a scrap of lamb; Hector re-belabored his bevy of pots to free a hand; Jeff batted it away and insisted on inserting the morsel directly into Hector's mouth, and the poor round thing accepted like a baby bird.

Outside of work I'm a man's best friend. I run up and down hills, learn contours. I ask myself questions like, Am I losing my mind, or am I losing my mind? I can't wait to go home so I can breathe the air and the weather will exist about as much and as little as white heterosexual masculinity.