Tomorrow we're eating at Patois, and Sunday we're having a little Super Bowl party. I'm making my patented barbecued eggs, and Hedgehog is bringing her patented gumbo tacos, and what the fuck? I can't get me no lesbian love in queer central, San Francisco, where I'm popular. Or in Boston, where I rock. Whereas one week into New Orleans, where my most ardent admirers are a nine-month-old boy and a handful of zookeepers, and I'm squeezing me a hot hot hottie who's won a goddamn Emma.
Or whatever that's called. Bragging? Not really. I'm just looking out my window at a wall made of doors.
The only place in this country that's cooler than San Francisco.
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