I went strawberry picking after work last week with my neighbor and a girl I met once on Halloween, when she was dressed up as a dead girl.
I love meeting people for the first time on Halloween, because it can take months before I stop associating them with their costume. Every October my social circle is temporarily filled with vampires and giant M&Ms who slowly turn into regular people with actual names by Christmas.
the strawberries tasted like strawberries.
and they were so red. so red that i’m going to stop instagramming my photos for the rest of this post.
i was going to make something out of all the strawberries. a tart.
but then i remembered they were already perfect.
so i put them in a giant bowl that took up half the fridge. #ImATerribleRoommate
As we were leaving, the guys who pick strawberries all day for a living were just coming in,
and the irony almost killed me.
After working all day, we paid money to do the same activity that these people had just spent all day getting paid to do. I understand the novelty of picking strawberries wears off when you’re doing it for 10 hours a day, and that we’re also paying for the strawberries we take home, but the sociologist in me is screaming to analyze this.
But not right now. And certainly not here.
one more.
































































