9:17 p.m. Earlier I said these mozzarella sticks taste like garbage. I would like to amend that statement. They taste worse than garbage. I would prefer to eat garbage, because then there would be the chance I would get to eat a bite of something good someone started to eat but couldn’t finish, or paper.
The water outside TGI Friday’s is black now.
9:23 p.m. I keep thinking I hear people say “Caity.” I write down in my notebook that I am “definitely hallucinating.”
I put my head near the table to write more and the scent of old marinara and burnt rubber fills my nostrils. I sit back up.
9:36 p.m. A waiter tries to give me another table’s Boneless Buffalo Wings. Do not tempt me, Satan.