Blogspot, protector of the forests.

Some days, when my boss and I become weary from our charges, we take a trip to the local chocolate store. The Lindt Boutique is located in the Longwood Galleria, a food court that was disembodied, much to the chagrin of community activists, when its associated mall was bulldozed to make way for yet another goddamn cancer institute. I know. It's sick.

The idea of mass produced swiss chocolate is about as bourgeois as things can be, but since the white truffles speckled with light, crunchy, chocolate orgasm flakes actually constitue fine art in sugar, we don't care. It's not like we even buy the chocolate. Andra and I mostly go there to get free samples served by the hottie who works there. When we hold out our hands, childlike, and mew "chocolate please" in our softest voices, I feel like a character from an old-time movie or a Charles Dickens novel: you know, the one where the gay guy goes with his Romanian boss to the candy shop so we can oggle the clerk 3 days before her wedding to the hot Argentinian Jew who isn't quite divorced yet.