No more drinks. Fuck brunch.

Fuck  “let’s get drinks” text message novels. I’ll be down the block drinking whatever porter or imperial IPA is on draft this week. Find me there if you want.  http://www.newyorker.com/magazine/2015/01/19/lets-get-drinks

Clearly I’m not the only person who is “over” brunch. If I want potatoes covered in eggs and/or cheese, I’ll be in my kitchen. http://the-toast.net/2013/09/03/ladies-brunch/

My dream breakfast., eaten with joy at my kitchen table on Tuesday morning. Fuck brunch.

My dream breakfast, eaten with joy at my kitchen table on Tuesday morning. Fuck brunch.

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