The Last Supper was really Breakfast

It just hit me, my true "last supper" was breakfast.

I'm really pleased that, aside from a thoroughly enjoyed pig out at Jake's, I didn't really go overboard on the eating thing this past week. For one thing, I WILL eat again so the whole stuffing of the belly didn't seem necessary, or prudent. I'm only dwelling on it because I love the imagery.

I didn't dwell on the omelet, I enjoyed it, but there was a middle aged/semi homeless couple in the diner and I was too busy eavesdropping to focus on my food. I don't think it is denial, I truly believe that my nosiness is a greater force in my life than food.

He could barely walk and she had some bi-polar-ish issues going on, but they were enjoying their meal and each others company and support. She was planning on selling a printer to come up with the rent money and he was encouraging her to calm down and believe that an idea would come. I really envied them their friendship at that particular moment.

I was torn between the wish that I had someone with ME at breakfast on Wednesday (a week day) before going off to Mexico to have surgery and the delight at being able to discretely eavesdrop on something of interest. Actually, that's my life in a nutshell, caught between the need for people and solitude.

I'm the yin and the yang, the fat ass and the bombshell, the austere and the decadent, the bad girl and the dutiful daughter. Yes, I am Debra K, and I am full of shit and bad cliches.