My darling partner in crime turns 35 tomorrow. I remember 35. Compared to now, I still knew squat about life.

She seems to have it all nailed down pretty well, and I feel as though she could figure it out quickly enough if she didn’t. (Damn, that was a long sentence, but “legal”). Great mom, two college degrees, and GM of a cool company. I’m fake AF next to her. That doesn’t mean I’ll stop pretending, though.

It was a beautiful weekend in my eyes. I love rainstorms and cooler temperatures. Seattle is the closest climate to my liking, just like my Northern Irish DNA. I’ve never been to Ireland, and I’m pissed at the poons who brought my lineage to this ever-festering cesspool we call a country. Railroads? You’re welcome.

Besides the beautiful weather, I managed to get some key-lime pie gelato with graham cracker crumbs. I think it’s in your fifties when you learn orgasms don’t just come from below. Seriously, it was damn near intoxicating.

I used to deliver art with an ex Hell Yeah roadie who was absolutely in love with this cute waitress at the Cottage Cafe in Cle Elum, Washington. I promised him I’d find out her name one afternoon, but she was working the opposite side of the counter from where I sat. Luckily, this joint was old-school; there was a refrigerated, rotating pie display case near her, so I ordered a slice.

Delimma: they only had fruity flavors. I’ve always been a chocolate, peanut butter, or pecan guy. My fruit pie knowledge came in the form of the packaged Hostess brands my grandmother would snag from a nearby bakery.

I didn’t want to order it and not eat it. I find that disrespectful to the person who baked it, even if they loathed every single second while doing it. That said, I decided to turn it into a discovery moment. Something to recall in a future blog aka the one I’m writing now. They had a totally uncut key lime pie; ice cold.

My mouth watered, even though I’d never tasted the concoction before. It didn’t matter. My ’tism saw green, and green will always win in my mind. To me, key lime pie sounded like some pooney desert you’d eat at the Martha’s Vineyard yacht club social after the cheese and rohipnol courses, and rightfully so!

It was damn delicious, and my soul craves it most on cool, stormy days. Luckily, my neighborhood slinger of gelato is a master chef and managed to slam dunk my insatiable craving for a wonderful little spot off the beaten path going toward Spokane.

Funny, I don’t remember the waitress’ name, but that pie changed my life. Statistically, she would’ve just cheated on that dude anyway, or vice-versa. The art world is a lonely game; both sides of the fence. Pie never cheats.

Preach truths, toke jokes, and shoplift Amazon. I hope anyone reading this has a peaceful Sunday night full of pleasant recollections and pie stories.