It's a Bohemian existence, Moriarity.

What the fuck is a Brisling sardine.

Ian Cooper

The pursuit of art can quickly lead to a kind of bohemian existence.

(Should that be capitalized, – ed?)

{How the fuck would I know? – ed.}

For example, tonight’s dinner consists entirely of odd-ball stuff.

Brisling Sardines. Courtesy of the Inn of the Good Shepherd.

Chicken and Slop, essentially a bag of noodles and seasoning mix. Courtesy of St. Vincent de Paul. There’s no chicken in there either.

Baby dill pickles. Courtesy Salvation Army.

Deli-style coleslaw. That’s a buck seventy-nine from Food Basics.

Mustard. Ninety-nine cents, Food Basics. Because otherwise the sardines usually taste like shit.

Tomato juice. Inn of the Good Shepherd.

***

Wow. Them Brisling sardines tasted so bad, I had to look up and see what the hell they were. 

Also, that tomato juice has been around for a fuck of a long time.

"It's a Bohemian existence, Moriarity."

It probably won’t kill me but it didn’t taste like much either.

The sardines ended up in the toilet where they belong.

And that’s okay, Baby. Because the band are beautiful people.

And we’ve all had enough of them negative waves.

It's a Bohemian existence, Moriarity.

END