Self abuse

Had some strong drink last night. That was fine (though Mlle Smellypants was underwhelmed). What did me in was the poutine. Poutine from Mel's. What the fuck, I ask you? How did the evolutionary process producing Mel’s poutine come about?

“Let’s start with a potato, cut it up, and boil it in oil. Once we’ve saturated it with fat, let’s put some extra fat on top of it by covering it in cheese. But, you know, we can’t really put any salt on the cheese – that would be gross – so let’s smother the fucker in rich gravy to give it some flavour. That way the cheese will get all melty, and we can get in a little extra fat. Wow, that's awesome, it looks like puke now! But damn, it’s cold outside and I can still breathe a little through my cholesterol blockages, so let’s dump a pile of Montréal smoked meat on top of the whole thing before we eat it.”

Once more, what the fuck? The only way this dish could be more decadent is if you laid a long line of coke around the rim of the plate and used an exotic dancer as a table. Well . . . for ‘decadent’, read ‘better’. It’s so bloody good. I’m glad I don’t live in the Annex; if I had access to that poutine every time I got a jones on for it I’d be dead by now.

Miss H. once talked up poutine – where was it? Kingston? – running along the same lines, except with confit de canard instead of smoked meat. You can get me that for my birthday, too. Not much else is going on today. I NEED SLEEP TONIGHT. Mr. E sent me a fascinating article about Bach and the creepy organ music, check it out.

Bought some whore-y underwear. Why is H&M right there, so tempting. . . But as far as someone can need a black whore-y bra, I needed a black whore-y bra, so there you are. Last time at H&M, the Mr. Right of brassieres was a 36D. This time it was a 36C, which was nice, as I didn't imagine quite so vividly a bunch of tiny exploited women in a south-East Asian sweatshop wearing my future bra on thier heads, making fun of big fat Western capitalistic pigs with gargantuan breasts. But then, this one was made in Roumania, whereas the last one was made in Indonesia.

Oh geez, my whore-y bras are better travelled than I am.