— The Connoisseur
Tomorrow, brunch with a man named Kevin who just bought a boat.
Tonight’s meal was unplanned but satisfying.
Bon appétit.
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 left him staring into his beer, confused but lighter. Empty calories for him. A feast for me.
Entry 27
The eating is never physical, of course. It’s conceptual. I consume the confidence they mistake for character. I digest the certainty they call common sense. By the end of the night, Craig had agreed with me that maybe empathy isn’t just “woke nonsense,” and that his fear of foreign films might actually be fear of himself.
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 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. diary of eating straights 27
Here’s a proper text for Diary of Eating Straights 27 :
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.