As always, my Tuesday began as my Monday had – sitting in the café I increasingly despised trying to figure out how to make my daddy love me, like an eight year old with a C on her report card. My mind kept coming back to the idea of a big score, a big splash with lots of press that would demonstrate to him and to the world as a whole that I did, in fact, have what it took. To me that I had what it took.
It was becoming an obsession, lately, and it was one even my pastry did little to distract from. I'd opted for something French this time, a Pain au Chocolat (still chocolate, because where would we be without chocolate?). It wasn't nearly so good as the biscotti, objectively speaking, but at the same time I felt slightly more pretentious eating it, which is really half the reason anyone buys pastry to begin with.
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