It's a Saturday which demands no alarm clock, track pants are required, and my kindle should be no more than an arm's reach away. The only intrusions in to my cave are the light creeping around the curtain's edge and the gentle hum of a city at rest beyond.
I'm a 26-year old shmuck in a small city. I'm an IT consultant living in Wellington New Zealand. I've recently moved in to my cliched apartment (which is actually a man cave crammed with Whiskies, Jurrasic Park pinball machine, and general good times), and I spend my time doing shmucky things, like donating money to Apple. Somewhere in between being raised properly and becoming an awkwardly mis-guided adult I developed an enthusiasm for food. It's such a significant part of my life that I was telling someone in Ohakune, after a hard day skiing last week, that "I'm not happy unless I'm eating". And afterwards I realised I meant it. I mean, I'm not saying I'm unhappy (because I am not), but really it's about the level of elation, when biting in to a beautifully seared beef carpaccio, or when sipping on that perfectly selected, dried, roasted, prepared flat white that overwhelms the senses completely and transports a person from the monotony of life in to a sensory overload, is unbeatable.
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