The one hour lunch is a trap.
What can you really do in an hour? I write on this bloggity thang for a few minutes, fingers mashing away like some kind of epileptic on a teeter totter with an inner ear infection until the clock reads precisely 12:15.
At exactly 12:16, I'm sitting in a 300 horsepower rally car with absolutely nowhere to use it's despairingly complicated systems. At first I'm plodding along in a literal sea of Mercedes and Porsche drones, power symbols and shiny lures flying fierce for gold-diggers. But soon, I'm on a long twisting backroad, rejoicing in the unbridled ability to get it sideways whenever a particularly long patch of golden framed roadside oaks takes my better judgment away.
I haven't resorted to sitting down at a cafe (or what poses for it around here) for almost a month now (I got the Subaru STI a month ago, natch). Cigarettes are my dry turkey on rye bread with warm mustard now and the force of 90mph winds wash the cancerous burning sensation away nicely...
