No one wants to read what I had for lunch

Wake to the parched taste of a dry mouth. Rise to the scent of a half-cleaned kitchen. Continue with instant maple nut oatmeal, a pat of butter, some almonds, a banana and a glass of milk. Two percent. Jerry's Farm, Mulino, OR. Coffee once. New Seasons Concordia Blend. French press.

Toothpaste. Peppermint with baking soda.

Coffee again, thicker and coarser, dripped from a DeLonghi machine in the kitchen of a temporary workplace.

Tap water.

Sub-par street cart seafood ramen served in a plastic container. Wet noodles, orange broth and a gritty mussel. Tortilla chaser. More water.

A third cup of coffee.

A third cup of water.

Finish work, play some pinball, drink a happy hour beer. A Ninkasi. IPA.

Taste the beer fading from your breath as you bus home. Start savoring the thought of the leftover chicken you roasted the night before.

Decompress.

A wing, a thigh and a few other scraps. Roasted root vegetables. Turnips and parsnips and carrots and beets reheated in the microwave. Dave's Killer Blues Bread and melted butter. More water.

Start writing.