Feral Swine

I’ve lately been fortunate enough to be accompanied in my grocery shopping by the ghost of Dr. Hunter S. Thompson.

Every week, the cashier (Dipal, upon whom I harbor an immense and speechless crush) seems alarmed at the volume of sausages and other salted pork products Hunter requires. When she rings up my groceries, Hunter retreats to the next aisle to leaf through the gossip tabloids.

I know better, of course, than to ask Hunter for dating advice.