We ate breakfast at the Waffle House after work. No matter what you get, it's the Widow Maker, even if it's egg whites. We had to blot them. !! Y noticed that the toast is the sleeper, with about one stick of butter per slice. It's best to stick with the waffles, I think, as long as you don't go ballistic with the syrup. They're the only things that aren't steeped in some sort of butter product. But hey. Oh, and they have T-shirts now that say "Eat My Grits (and waffles, and...blah blah blah)." And there was a cook there with a pointy paper Waffle House cap. It was, um, jaunty.

You might be a redneck if you have a Waffle House credit card.

We didn't do much else of note, not that going for breakfast is necessarily worthy of note. I studied for my cert for about 15 minutes (lame!) and packed more stuff, because we're moving on Saturday. In the middle of the day we were rudely interrupted by my slumlord's cabana girl, who wanted to show my apartment. She insisted. Y suggested that I offhandedly mention how the closet floor is wet because the water leaks from the bathroom, and also "Did they ever find out who held that girl in #1 up by knifepoint?" but I didn't. Should've, but didn't.

Today is Hawaiian Day at work. I don't want to hear a goddamn thing about it unless they have a roast pig on a spit outside on the lawn, some Martin Denny music piped inside, and women in grass skirts. Hawaiian women, not, like, the managers. :::shudder::: The horror. The horror!

I'm sure that the guy on day shift is going to wear his mall-bought "Hawaiian" shirt. Putz.