How to eat a hat.

I am looking for a reason to eat my hat. I feel hungry for hats. Surprise me. I am poised with hat in hand. Hand it to me. You've gotta.

I moved. The place I am living now is a block away from the last place. With the assistance of Jaguar and his Tacoma, I moved in less than an hour. I am renting a room without glass in one of the windows. How could I be closer to home? The sun pours in, and city buses glide past on the wide wide street. I have a new porch to sit on. A porch who wears a hat of foliage and flowers.

I can turn music up to volume. It's medicinal. Barefoot with a big espresso on a dirty porch. It's medicinal. I have quinoa and lentils for days and days. I have eggs and espresso. [Eggspresso]

I went on the latest edition of the Thursday night bicycle ride. It got me off the porch and on top of some pedals. Medicinal. I made myself talk to some folks, but mostly reprised the role of aloof goof. I sat to the side and watched the cracking and stacking of Lone Star cans. I felt like a junior high dance as I sat demure and gentle in the shadows alone. You couldn't drink this down anyway. You need to tear it into little pieces and chew slowly. I would never ask for anything different.