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You know you are hungover when you're craving scrapple.

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I wonder how difficult it is to start up a bakery.

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So it turns out that my underwear has been on inside-out this whole day. I blame daylight savings time.

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At the local speakeasy, into which they have crammed a four-piece blues band, including a blues-flautist. Folsom Prison Blues, Seven Spanish Angels, and a Robert Johnson medley so far. I love West Philly sometimes.