I feel bloated, exhausted and fat as a bastard--lying splayed out in the middle of my living room floor like a beached whale, catching up on old episodes of The Simpsons on DVR and sweating pure suet.
It's been a week, more or less, since I rolled gimpily into town and found my way down to the office. I detailed my first day's eating adventures like a war correspondent just back from the front--dropping my critic's gear (wallet, credit cards, laptop bag, reporter's notebooks, pill case full of ibuprofen and Zofran and hip flask) by the door and falling right down in front of the typer as soon as I got home, unloading on the poor machine like it'd said something nasty about my mother.
Hungry for a taste of Jason Sheehan's writing? He's landed in Seattle, as he detailed yesterday in the above post. You can follow his adventures here, on the restaurant blog of our partner paper, the Seattle Weekly, which now can claim Sheehan as its own.
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