>>1825
No, look;
In the last two and a half years, my life has changed in some aspects. I met new people, I became more serious, I got a job. But there is one thing that never changes, that you can be sure of. That thing is, Monday to Friday, at 16.30, no matter the weather, no matter the season, no matter any circumstances, you can find me in a one particular spot. And at that spot, in a rather small, semi-underground room, I'll be saying "strawberry pancakes and a cup of orange juice, please". And I will gently slide a local equivalent of about $1.50, smile as the waitress smiles back, and wait patiently, four to six minutes, as my pancakes are being prepared. Then, look, I will take the plate, sit down at some table, preferably not taken, put the pancakes in front of me, the cup of juice slightly to the right, and proceed with the ceremony. Gently slicing with a disposable knife, stabbing the morsel with a disposable fork, and devouring, consuming, relishing the underlying idea behind The Pancake. Every now and then, I would take a sip of the orange juice, make a brief break to enjoy my situation, then continue eating, most exquisitely caressing the strawberries inside my mouth, feeling every bit as the delectable divine food goes down my digestive tract. About seven minutes and two pancakes later, I will arise from the table, return the plate to the dishware return booth, trash the disposable cutlery, quaff some more of the ambrosial orange juice, and exit the bar, feeling that today was another good day, and whatever happens next, this day cannot be spoiled. Because, you know, pancakes. So please don't give me that waffles shit.
