I ate breakfast at Submarina yesterday. There was no-one behind the counter when I entered, but after a few moments, eight pretty girls appeared, all of them looking to be around nineteen years old, and all of them the same height (around five feet). Two helped me with my sandwich while the rest gabbed amongst themselves.
I glanced behind me and saw that the wall mounted television was tuned to Fox News with closed captioning. I immediately had a mental image of some meaty, middle-aged Republican manager surrounding himself with young girls. I pictured the rapport they must have;
Harold opened the register drawer and his face seemingly became stone. Bebe's face turned beet red as she wondered if she'd come up short again.
"Yer a good, American girl, Bebe," said Harold. He shoved the drawer shut with one paw and patted her cheek with the other. "Now, I want you, Tiffany, Bambi, and Coral to get yerselves cleaned up real good. And then I want you to show me yer hands before you handle fresh bread."
Not exactly the best breakfast thoughts. Maybe I should've had eggs. I opened the refrigerator this morning and an egg popped out, splattering over the floor. It was almost like a prank. I wonder how it could have gotten in such a precarious position.
And, yes, it is morning, and it is breakfast time for me. I slept from 10pm to 5am. I finally put my foot down and decided I wouldn't take the small sleep bits I'd gotten the past week--I'd been sleeping three to five hours in the morning, then for about four hours from 3 or 4pm until 7 or 8pm. On Friday, I took the morning five hours, and stayed awake all the way 'til 10pm. I'd meant to go later, especially as at midnight to-night I plan to go with Tim to see Terminator 2 at the Landmark Cinema.