Each successive week shaves off another Gruyère-shaped chunk of time between me and the end of my job. Eighteen more days to go, as of today; we're close to the two-week mark. This afternoon, I'll tutor my private kids for the last time; next week, the kids and I are doing a jjong-party to celebrate the end of our association: there'll be a homemade lunch, followed by a movie and perhaps some driving around Skyline Drive, followed by a homemade dinner—my gift to the kids for having been such excellent students. This week, I need to plan out my menu and shop for ingredients; I'm already pretty much decided on pulled-pork quesadillas for lunch (plus some Korean-style banchan on the side) and a dinner like the one I did for my brother David und seine Frau Patricia: salmon steak, shrimp-and-chicken Alfredo, garlic bread, and a light salad—with a luscious combo dessert of mousse and shortcake as the coda.
The only problem, of course, is that I can't afford to overeat: I've got work on Monday, and I don't want to be pooping during work hours. I know my digestive system well enough to understand that, if I'm still eating after, oh, 7PM, I'll be fucked the following day. But at least I'll have some kick-ass leftovers for lunch throughout the week!
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