Entry 27
Tomorrow, brunch with a man named Kevin who just bought a boat.
Bon appétit.
I left him staring into his beer, confused but lighter. Empty calories for him. A feast for me.
The target was a man named Craig, mid-thirties, wearing salmon-colored shorts and boat shoes with no socks. He was complaining to his friends about his wife’s “emotional availability” while simultaneously ordering a third IPA. Deliciously unaware.
I ordered a booth in the corner. Watched them first. That’s the key. You don’t just eat straights—you observe the marinade.
I approached as “a stranger needing a lighter.” Craig obliged with performative friendliness. Within minutes, I had him monologuing about his keto diet and his side hustle selling candles shaped like power tools. Every sentence was a breadcrumb.
I found myself at a noisy sports bar on the edge of town—tucked between two furniture outlets and a car wash that never seems to close. The place was packed with straights: laughter loud and defensive, beers held like shields, conversations revolving around mortgages, fantasy football, and the suspicious softness of new towels.
Here’s a proper text for Diary of Eating Straights 27 :
Tonight’s meal was unplanned but satisfying.
Entry 27
Tomorrow, brunch with a man named Kevin who just bought a boat.
Bon appétit.
I left him staring into his beer, confused but lighter. Empty calories for him. A feast for me.
The target was a man named Craig, mid-thirties, wearing salmon-colored shorts and boat shoes with no socks. He was complaining to his friends about his wife’s “emotional availability” while simultaneously ordering a third IPA. Deliciously unaware.
I ordered a booth in the corner. Watched them first. That’s the key. You don’t just eat straights—you observe the marinade.
I approached as “a stranger needing a lighter.” Craig obliged with performative friendliness. Within minutes, I had him monologuing about his keto diet and his side hustle selling candles shaped like power tools. Every sentence was a breadcrumb.
I found myself at a noisy sports bar on the edge of town—tucked between two furniture outlets and a car wash that never seems to close. The place was packed with straights: laughter loud and defensive, beers held like shields, conversations revolving around mortgages, fantasy football, and the suspicious softness of new towels.
Here’s a proper text for Diary of Eating Straights 27 :
Tonight’s meal was unplanned but satisfying.