Nothing quite says "desperately seeking hangover cure" like a meal of last night's left-out leftovers. I know that I should be steeping in shame, but there is something very romantic about this particular morning after meal. Not at all worried about my smeared mascara or the fact that I still haven't changed out of the lower half of last night's ensemble. Not even worried that the old Chinese man in the complex across the street has been watching me drag my feet around in nothing more than a little, black triangle bra and a mini. I pour myself another glass of red and enjoy the rest of my hearty meal from Russian Hill's Luella (half a burger left unfinished by my dining partner and several polenta fries with marinara dipping sauce, all wondrously improved on in flavor since dinnertime). And what are my plans for today? Right now, I couldn't spare two fucks to care.
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