Blame It On The Bar Snacks

Apparently, it has been five years to the day since I first cleared Immigration and made my way into these here United States. I was energetic, motivated, and charging around San Francisco gulping down multicolored beverages and ravishing the hippie women. They were, on the whole, more optimistic times. I recall with particular fondness being served sepia-colored strawberry wedges as a bar snack at some yuppie establishment in the Haight. They were sepia-colored in part because everything in my memories is sepia-colored, but also because they had been sitting in a vat of rum behind the bar for a period of some months.

After the sepia-colored fruit, things are a bit hazy for a while; when I came to I was shackled to this desk, in a city far from San Francisco, with a thousand-yard stare and a belly. I only remember the precise date of my admission because I've been having to write it on various forms ever since. My plan to chip a sufficiently large hole in the wall to admit both myself and my trusty desk is nearing completion, and passage is booked for Sydney in anticipation of this. Assuming I make it there in one piece, rest assured that I will consider nothing more adventurous than a salted peanut to accompany my subsequent multicolored beverages. (The hippie women are also out of the question. Does Australia even have hippies? The homegrown kind, I mean, not the accursed Anglo-American travelling variety.)