British people are known for bland food

I just over heard a girl at the table opposite mine say that. Apparently they boil everything into a flavorless mush, and that is why they invented Worcestershire sauce. I'm going to have to disagree here. I think they deep fry everything to a heart attack facilitating, yet delicious crispiness, and that is why they invented HP Brown Sauce.
But it's all speculation.
I am looking at a painting of an ecstatic whale, who I only imagine is ecstatic as he is suspended weightlessly in green water that fades to yellow, he can hold his breath for an uber long time, and words are floating with him in that spring colored abyss. I am projecting. I would be ecstatic. To be honest though, his face looks a bit smug. But he has every right to be. He's a behemoth in the 2nd dimension.
SNAP!
I'm sad-ish today. I'm having a coffee at Spiderhouse in attempt to cheer myself with caffeinated good and the hope and endorphin inducing possibility of hot boy seeing, especially one particular hot boy employee, who I thought I just saw, and my stomach jumped, but it wasn't him, and I was disappointed.
It is really hard to be funny or clever when you're down. I am trying to think of things, but instead of actually thinking, I am being repeatedly caught by curious yet apalled onlookers
with my fingers inside my nostrils. I'm not picking! It's a comfort thing. My other comfort thing is putting my hand in my pants and cupping my vajayjay. It's warm and soft and it makes me feel safe. So I'm obviously choosing the less offensive of publicly inappropriate comfort devices. Sod off!
Maybe I'll just run to my mom's house, pick up some of my early to mid-teenage 'woe is me, I've managed to convince every one that I will take my life with an entire bottle of Advil soon, and leave my tortured life in a headache free condition' poetry, transcribe it on to my blog, and call it a day.
One thing though, is that they are playing Black Sabbath/Ozzy Osbourne, I can't tell which because, as I'm getting to saying, I don't like either and I don't give a frick, but the point is that it's annoying and affecting the purity of my self pitying mood, distorting it into a 'I'd like to infect myself with rabies' sort of mood, which is obviously not my desired state.
I also quit smoking yesterday afternoon, which is gay, because it seems like everyday in my life is a bad day to quit smoking. Or maybe everyday is too bad a day to quit smoking because the day has been sullied with attempts at nicotine abstinence. The chicken, the egg? Who fucking knows.
I'm probably just going to procure a beret, a fresh cup of coffee, and a package of existentialistic, brown papered, French cigarettes, which, while not less carcinogenic, are infused with such a high concentration of coolness and superficiality dispelling ponderance, you grow in awesomeness purely by attempting to pronounce their name.
Fuck a Duck!
This motivational incidence of perseverance through the trials of shit early satan worshipping metal, rejection dejection, and bowel shattering cigarette withdrawals, brought to you by a true crusader of awesome, a warrior for fabulous of the highest distinction; me.
I'm feeling 1.3% better.