When you have been on strike for a while there is something that sinks in real fast. That something is the cliche about how we do not take time to smell the roses.
My workday goes something like this. Shit, eat, drive, work, eat, work, eat, work, shit, work, eat, work, drive, walk the dog, drink beer, eat, drive, work out, drink beer, fuck if I am lucky, then sleep. How the fuck are you supposed to smell the roses with a schedule like that?
This morning I had homemade beans on toast washed down with a cup of strong, black tea. Fuck did those sweet, slow cooked beans taste good. "The motherfucking Queen does not get beans as good as these," I told the Hammer, drooling on the floor by my feet. I continued to eat them slowly, sipped my tea and told the Hammer, "If you live to be an old dog we are going to sit here and eat beans on toast and sip tea every day. And when you die I am going to get another dog, not as cute as you, to watch me live my last days like a man is supposed to: like a Mexican."