September 16 - Breakfast Burrito

I feel like I could possibly puke, like it's not out of the question.
Not sure where this is coming from. Maybe it was lunch when I ate that fish I found in the men's room at the park. Looked OK, though; certainly good enough for somebody to have eaten a few bites of it. I'm assuming that somebody was the homeless guy was passed out next to it.
I wonder if that's what caused him to puke, assuming that was his puke he was face down in. But maybe it wasn't--his puke, that is. If I had a nickel for every time I've passed out in somebody else's puke, I'd have a quarter--or a few dollars if you want to extend the time frame beyond since the end of summer.
But I digress.
Maybe it was the chicken I had earlier that made me puke. He seemed healthy enough, though. He put up a good fight, I'll give him that much. In hindsight, maybe I should've cooked it, though. But I didn't want to offend my hosts. Not that I necessarily would have. Actually, who knows? In all honesty, I don't know what the protocol is at a Guatemalan cockfight. If uncooked pollo is de rigeur, then I say when in Rome su casa es mi casa.
Speaking of unclear social protocol (and these days, when am I not?), maybe it wasn't 100% necessary to blow all those guys after all. Maybe that's why I'm not feeling so hot. But once I caved for the guitar player, I kind of felt like it would cause a rift if I didn't blow the rest of the mariachi band. I just can't believe I had to work so hard to talk them into it. I mean, who's going to refuse a blow job from Robert Pattinson?
Nobody.
Which is why I need to fire my agent for letting Twilight go to that pasty-faced jackoff and getting me booked as the fluffer for Los Gringos del Amor part VII. If I ever get my ass off this bus station floor and get back to el norte, I promise you I will have his ass in my breakfast burrito.
Know that.