Tonight.

I ended up the night feeding bits of tortilla to a 3 legged Rottweiler named Delila.

I love it when I can round off an explanation of my evening with a statement like that. So let's work backwards, shall we?

The reason I had the burrito was that Carl went with me on a taco run to this amazing little hole in the wall called Los 3 Panchos where he fluently conversed with them in such a way as to get Jett and I delicious bean, cheese and sour cream burritos of unholy goodness. I am convinced that at almost any restaurant in which the people fluently speak a language other than my own, I am much more likely to get good food if I am with someone who actually speaks that language - this is perhaps a combined derivative of my paranoia that people are always talking about me in other languages when they think I can't understand them, and the idea that in Britain they have much better chocolate than we do in America. I'm not sure how these get connected in my brain. In any case, the equation (probably involving imaginary numbers at some point and a connection with my vague feelings regarding animism) works out so that I believe that food should be ordered only in the language appropriate to its native culture otherwise I am somehow being unfaithful to the food itself (which somehow makes it sad? [as if being eaten wouldn’t make it sad?]) and thus it will not taste good. I am also a huge hypocrite in this regard, as I clearly order Mexican, Chinese, and Italian food and do not speak Spanish, Chinese, or Italian, but hell - I can only do so much. This animism / food thing is a really tricky road to follow when one is drunk because you start thinking about drinking from the drink’s point of view and things can become a little garish. Perhaps I should stick to animism for simple things like cars, trees, and rocks.

The reason that I even knew to go on a run there in the first place was the amazing Stephanie invited myself, Jett, several people whose names I can't remember, Jacob, and (of course) Carl to a bar called Delilas for drinks - at which we (Jett, Jacob, and I) arrived to see Steph consuming the aforementioned burrito (which induced instant craving), and which caused Delila the 3 legged Rottweiler (named after or before the bar? We may never know) to whine and look pathetic (apparently these burritos also cause instant craving in dogs).

Thus, I fed Delila bits of my burrito (because it is really hard to turn down a dog giving you puppy eyes and holding up the stump of it's bad leg) after I had a generous measure of the free bourbon that was being handed out (with glasses!) by a woman who must spend at least an hour every morning making her hair as ugly as it was at that moment - I mean some serious EFFORT was going into the kinda-straight-kinda-curly-very-stiff-volumised fluff.

oh, and did I mention the fellow who stood up on the bar in a kilt and sang (with Scottish accent) a drinking song and proposed a toast that ended something like - "so fuck em all" (which is a sentiment that I have to heartily commend)?

all of this followed Jett and my run to Chipotle for dinner because we be po' (which probably raises the question of why we ordered the burritos later - which can be answered with the simple statement "but it was Chipolte"). This was after my most-of-the-afternoon thrift store run (during which I got both a red pleather skirt and a red vinyl vest) and trip to the Swedish Bakery for a marzipan frog. The marzipan frog being culinary therapy for the moment this afternoon when I fell down on my floor weeping because I was so sick of working on the website.

And before all that, I woke up this morning.