My mother always says I loved to eat. One of my first words was “more!” or likely, “mohh.” Sitting in the high chair, she says I would reach my little arms outwards toward the refrigerator, or pot on the stove (wherever sustenance was coming from) and open and close my hands, smiling “mohh? mohh?” More, indeed.
I love to sip on a nice beverage while writing in coffee shops around the city. I’m also not a coffee drinker, per se. So of course, I love going to Octane.
A girl’s gotta have inspiration. Dark Belgians will do rightly fine, thankyouverymuch. But I don’t always have to pull out my driver’s license. Can i just say, it’s really nice to still be carded?
Often times when I venture out to Buford Hwy, I don’t know what it is! — the staff gives me complimentary desserts. Just for being there. I don’t do anything special, except eat.
The server brought this little guy out to me without saying a word. I still had my mouth full of vermicelli. I ravished the bún thit nuong far too fast to take photos. Sorry.
There’s some kind of pleasure center that gets massaged when I write and chew simultaneously. Something having to do with dopamine and my frontal cortex. As i understand it, every time I engage in said activity, I get a hit. Aaaah. You can ask this guy. He was recently on Fresh Air discussing his new book How We Decide.
I’m so thankful we are not actively present to all the work our bodies go through just to do the menial things. It’s fascinating to think about, but exhausting, too. I’ll stick with writing and chewing.