Having It My Way

Life has been pretty good as of late. Despite my grumbling over having to work Tuesday, Thursday, Friday, and Saturday mornings, the work has been steady, interesting, and somewhat lucrative (if, that is, you consider getting paid in cartons of Dunhill Lights and bottles of Ballantine's scotch "lucrative." I do). Still, for a while now I've felt that something essential has been missing, yet until today I wasn't quite able to put my Bill Finger on it. The NBA conference finals are as nice as a pre-It was Written Nas, the other day I received my Amazon order of a few Dennis Lehane novels, The Perry Bible Fellowship Almanack, and The Wire: The Complete Series box set (which has regrettably placed my planned Karamazov sequel* on the back burner. I'll try to manage), and I'm getting a daily dosage of Mario -- Galaxy -- with the promise of more Mario -- Kart -- to come. June 10. Mark it on your calendars.

So what is it that has been lurking beneath the surface, eating me? Rather, what haven't I been eating? (No, not a fat dick, Mr. Funnyman. Wait...) Better question: Where haven't I been eating?

Not in the bathroom, certainly; but let's be serious for a moment (and only for a moment). Every day I eat to satisfy both my palate and my instinctual desire to not starve and die, but rarely do I feel sated on either level. Eating an ungodly number of ill-conceived convenience store sandwiches over the course of one's life will do that to a man, especially a man who sees stuff between two slices bread and, throwing caution and reading comprehension to the wind, buys all manner of 'wichcraft. Sandwiches -- or reasonable, hand-drawn facsimiles thereof -- are my Achilles heel: my weakness, for you Constant Retards who didn't pay attention during high school history Greek mythology or play Trojan for the NES. But no longer!

No longer will I have to settle for a meager ham-cheese-and-sugar-laced-bread "sandwich" lighter than a single sheet of newsprint when I stumble home drunk at 3 in the morning; no longer will I have to call McDelivery and its unconscionable delivery time -- 40 minutes? The fuck out! -- when I wake up hungover the day after; and no longer will I have to worry about growing old, having grandchildren, and being able to stay hard for more than two minutes, for I am delivered...in the biblical sense. I'm pretty sure I didn't die, but I'm positive I'm in Heaven. Because, you see, today I learned that a Burger King is opening in my neighborhood.

June 15. Mark it on your calendars.


* wherein Smerdyakov is resurrected by druids