Holy hell I love buttered wheat toast with jam. It is the simplest sin…

Right now I’m sitting at my own booth inside Nat’s Early Bite on Topanga. I’m usually at the one in Van Nuys, but I find myself at this one, completely by chance. Conveniently, the sewing machine repair shop I needed to check out is in the same complex. Got an estimate for a tune-up (a horrifying “$89.95” — by the by, why the hell don’t they just say “ninety fucking dollars”? Like a five cents difference really tricks my brain into thinking I really am spending less than $90 on this shit…). I could have charged it and gotten the thing fixed already so I can finally hem all my dresses, but I’d rather wait until I have all the tangible money in cash. I like to physically see the money I’m saving.

The surface of the table smells sour from the old, bacteria-ridden wet rag they wiped it with. It’s kind of gross, yet simultaneously endearing. That smell is just one of many charms a small diner has to offer. Like the bitter ice cubes in my iced coffee – that same offensive aftertaste you get from fast food chain ice chips that make you think they used the water from their toilet tanks (I call that “ass-water”).

I ordered the chicken-cilantro sausage with over-easy eggs, home fries and buttered wheat toast. Ate half because I ate at home not too long ago. Now I’m browsing Tumblr and Craigslist, about to work on my Journal and do some reading.

This whole weekend I stayed home while my car was in the shop, working on various paintings and watching Mythbusters via Netflix. I seriously can’t get enough of that brilliant show. I love it so dearly…

The weather has been so wonderful these past few days. Ocean breezes! It feels so nice after the HELLISH heat we’ve had. The Valley is horrible this time of year. It’s not long until the Santa Ana winds and brushfires come, so I’m going to cherish this non-apocalyptic, peaceful weather. Yay!

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