I'm kind of young

I'm not sick. I have no plans to move to another city or neighborhood. I have loads of free time. This all does little to explain my commitment to returning to the same breakfast spot over and over again. I get up twice a month with a ghastly hangover at 9am and sadly realize as i stare at my ceiling, or perhaps the inside of my elbow, that to lie in bed longer would not restore my soul and physical being efficiently or through the path of least pain. So i bravely get up, get dressed, grab a book and head out the door in search of a "novel" experience. open door, turn left, turn left. wonder where to go, reach mission st. Pupusas? South American Stew only served on weekends? El Salvadoran? Greasy Spoon? Random Street Tamale served ina Safeway bag? My eyes are wide with anticipation. Turn right. walk walk walk walk walk . Red Cafe. Damn. mediocre eggs, mediocre hash browns, pretty good fried plaintains. they recently repainted the walls brown! (from a lovely white) they have a counter and the coffee is too hot to drink so only one cup is downed over the course of the meal, if you are lucky you make it to one refill. It ain't cheap. These are all good reasons to go to a restaurant every 6 months or so cos it's in the hood, but my reluctant fervor I cannot understand. I will butt my head on discontent for as long as the object is willing.