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4:01 pm | 30 June 2004 | mayonnaisey lover

300 calories, 87 grams of fat

Okay. Um. I do not pay you, the Sandwich Artist, to express your personal feelings and preferences about my sandwich. I understand that flip shorthand for my topping choices such as "everything green, and only that" may be difficult for you to understand. It is conceivable that, while choosing said items--lettuce, pepperoncini, jalapeños, cucumber, avocado, and pickle--you might become confused as to the meaning of "green," or it as, like, a concept, and be all asking me if i want your pallid, tasteless tomatoes, which no. I do not. Maybe you're colorblind. I forgive you. But it is inexcusably presumptuous, horrifying, and angering, to have my mayonnaise preferences questioned.

You see, friends, I like mayonnaise. A lot. Probably more than most. And I don't find the stock teaspoon of mayo allotted to your 6" sub by Subway, Blimpie, or Togo's to be sufficient. So, bitch, why don't you shut your hole and put on more mayonnaise when I tip you off with the magic phrase "Can I please have some more mayonnaise?" Don't be pulling a face. You have the visor and the plastic gloves and the squeezy thing of delicious mayonnaise, which lets you know that you are the Sandwich Artist, and I have the confusing elasticated wallet and the HUNGER FOR MAYO, so I am clearly the Consumer Gymnast, so why don't you quit arguing with me and just lay it on my sammich until I say When? What kind of Sandwich Artist are you: Abstract Expressionist? Are you smearing my condiments into a non-figural representation of your disapproval? OPEN UP MY FUCKING SANDWICH with that special little knife-trickery cut they teach you at Sandwich Art School AND PUT SOME MAYONNAISE ALL UP ON IT!

And I know I whimper about being fat on here all the time, but I'm actually not. I'm actually a very normal size six and I am two inches shy of six feet and what else has the number six in it? My six-inch sub? Yes. Let's make it an even lot by ADDING SIX TABLESPOONS OF MAYO LIKE I LIKE IT. Even if I were one of America's Overweight, I don't need someone in a logo-embroidered polo shirt giving me the gasface because I am breaking Jared's rules for losing 45 pounds on Subway subs. And I sure as hell didn't see anyone cracking wise about the lardkeg in line behind me who ordered two footlong meatball subs with cheese, even though THAT made me want to cough up bile on the Fresh Baked [sic] Cookies case. Next time I'm gonna crack my own personal jar of Hellman's in the dining room and DIP my sub INTO it while glaring venomously at the hater who denied me my condiment.

One more thing about Subway

Their "wraps," while low in carbs (and if I hear one more thing about *#&%@ carbs other than "Why, they're delicious," I will seriously explode), have the texture, personality, uneasy oral sensation, and taste-temptingness of human skin. Steer clear, friends.


You know what I have at home? You know? Can you guess? TOFU PUPS! ¡Que sabroso! ¡Muy rico! I'm working at home tomorrow instead of trekking up to this hellhole, and I have this desire to make all SIX of the pups and LINE THEM UP (in buns with toppings &c.) on my desk next to me, as incentive to work harder by allotting myself one dog per 90-minute period, or just (mostly) because it's kind of Warholian and funny. Dude, can you tell I'm PMS-mad? I want to eat the whole universe. With mayonnaise.


So i think i'm going to, as they say, 'flip the script' and go home to Michigan in August and then go to New York in October, instead, due in large part to the screaming heat that will be no doubt happening. i'm sure i'd rather be in New York walking around all cool as shit instead of sweating like Atlantis's version of Niagara Falls, and being around my family, as awesome as they (all seven of 'em) are, is sure to irritate me anyway, so the veneer of sweat will be just another layer of icing on my hatecake. So my revised plan is a jaunt home mid-to-late August, which also coincides with the airlines' insanely cheap flight rates then, too, no doubt in deference to the inside-of-a-Kenny-Rogers-Roasters weather. ANYWAY. While there:


Performaroke, hopefully in some crazy costume and/or sequinned gown;
Some kind of a feature (poetry);
Ride last tailwinds of personal mythology (garnered by simply having left town and not moved back);
Reassure the "little people" that good music is still happening out there. The radio stations back home are still foaming themselves over, like, Alice in Chains. Just wait 'til I bring them some DRAGONFORCE !!;
Visit Shawn; confirm we are still going to get married when 40;
Find bar where underagers are allowed inside, just not served, and take sister and brother out (they will have flasks). Accept that this probably means drinking at Chili's;
Find Tim, make him actually buy me that promised bearclaw;
Tell Dad about tattoos. MAYBE.

get speeding ticket;
sit around calmly as horseflies drain all blood from body;
let stepmother convince you that you need dairy products, give up fight out of exhaustion, and spend three days bloated and groany because of the six gallons of whole-fat milk she's foie-grased down your throat;
tell Dad about drinking, smoking, cursing, boys, and hanging with a fast crowd.

The disease

I think I have the Gum Disease Gingivitis. (At this point in our civilization's progress, don't enough people know that gingivitis is a gum disease without having to stentoriously preface its every mention with "The Gum Disease"?) Either that or I have been getting a little over-crazy with the flossing, but I noticed that a half-centimetre segment of my gum seems a little roughed up and I am, of course, freaking out. Since I'm a total genius I attempted to craft a tiny poultice for it, by dropping a tiny weensy bit of Listerine onto the sterile pad of a round Band-Aid and then carefully drying my tooth and sticking the Band-Aid's sticky part on there so the Listerine-soaked pad thing would flop onto the Gum Area In Question, but that didn't really work so well.

Not appetizing

Yesterday I got to watch my boss's enormous, slothful, evil, rotund black cat, Felix, as he CAPTURED AND KILLED a fully grown squirrel. Since my desk looks smack out an iron-grating door, the entire bestial, savage scene was within full view. The squirrel was squealing. The cat...the cat was munching. And I was doing that nervous laugh-shriek thing that is my body's alarm system. Much as a fire alarm demands that water be produced to quell the flames, so does that sounds, produced under extreme stress, signal a need for Scotch. STAT. I'm going to start keeping a stash in my drawer. clm.

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