Birthday food and being Cankar

On exactly this day, couple decades ago, a very large baby was born by a very cool lady. He had teeny tiny fingernails on his bubbly baby hands which he clutched in fists, thumb in, much like he does today; he had gorgeous, full, pouty little mouth, which he still has today and pretty much the same hair-style. He was a quiet, curious, hungry baby. There was a little bit of a healthy, manly fascination with breasts. That hasn't changed to date either.
      To celebrate that very thankful day, I broke my diet and we went to the Serbian restaurant, like we often do to celebrate rare precious stuff. For the love of all that's hot and creamy, that food is to die for. My tummy wasn't too grateful, not like my tongue was, but I am hoping I will recover by the time we run out of toilet paper. Good things about Serbian food is you don't get hungry again for about a week.

The Cankar thing - Cankar is the national top shit when it comes to literature (and by that of course it means he wrote stuff to slash your wrists by) - today when when Drej and I were walking out mutts, in the rain, chatting merrily away ... We met another lady and she said something about how Drej and I are both published writers, nay? How profound our conversations during walks must be! ... Ehem. Well, yes. As a matter of fact, they can be. We discuss high literature aplenty. We compare ideas and polish our techniques. We critique each-other and others with great taste ... Until somebody walks by a puppy. Then we make retarded baby noises and talk about puppies for the remainder of the route.