rev:text
| - I stumble through the nondescript doorway, searching for art supplies. I see no canvases, no markers, no paint brushes. I see nothing but wooden chairs and a lanky, long haired man singing to a hip soundtrack.
"This is not art," I say aloud to no one in particular.
How wrong I turned out to be.
Having just journeyed an imposing 15-30 steps out of my way, I was obviously famished. I inquired about what I was looking at on a chalkboard menu. Pel'meni, it claimed. Which is clearly a made up word but my considerable exhaustion stepped with reckless abandon all over my fidelity to perfection in linguistic blah blah blah
"I'll take it all," I spit through gritted teeth at the tree of a man.
"Uh, just one?" My constant and intense eye contact was clearly giving him pause. Good. I seize the upper hand.
"What do you think, jack?" I raise my eyebrow. Like The Rock. He must be terrified.
"...sure. Potato, beef, or mix?"
"Tch. Yeah." More eye contact. I am the coolest person that has ever entered this establishment and I see the recognition of that fact wash over this human tower. He nods slowly, drinking in the majesty of the moment.
"Okay. I think we'll just give you a mix, alright?"
"You got it, bub." I hit him with a quick wink to make sure we're cool. He knows. He gets it.
A few minutes pass and I am given a modest brown container. The type of containment apparatus that Jesus himself would enjoy a made-up food from. It's not for me to draw that comparison, but I think it's important to note.
Inside are nestled a small group of what appear to be pasta. A first bite reveals they are filled with meats and potatoes and possibly sprinkled with love from another plane of existence. Do you remember that sound an old computer makes when you shut it down suddenly? A muted buzz followed by a sudden stop as just the cooling fan runs for half a second longer? My brain did that.
I'm told I sat in the Palmesteri'eni lobby for hours, a slight drool dribbling from my chin. The leaning tower of customer service occasionally entered my periphery, adding, "oh, cool, man" and then striding off.
My life changed that day. I now only measure time in two ways: before palemebticnejeendckjeni and after. I said there was no art inside that modest cookhouse. How wrong I was, friends. How wrong I was.
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