In South Beach we turned our noses up at the restaurants by the water, where the waitresses bark at you that it’s happy hour and there is a special. Instead we ate tapas at a little Spanish place that felt hidden. By this point we were both so sunburned and tired, we needed to go home.
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I don’t want to hear about your lunch for the same reason I don’t want to hear about the last bowel movement you took or your most recent orgasm; it’s the least personal thing a human can do in that we all do it, but the most personal in that I’m not entirely sure any two humans experience food in the same way.