McFailure

I'm having the kind of day where I want long-term and slowly painful self-destruction; the kind you can only get from eating the worst fast food. Fully envisioning my arteries clogging so badly blood is forced through my very pores and my heart exploding at the age of forty from rot and preservatives, I headed to McDonald's. I'm thinking double quarter-pounders and fries, extra salt. I want soda in straight syrup form, so much high-fructose corn goop it runs like jelly poured into a gallon-sized cup with no ice.

A meal that leaves you in physical pain for a whole day after eating it.

Picture a meal so ridiculously unhealthy the vapors rising off the hot fat glistening on the cardboard packaging cause flies to plummet from the air.

What happens is I start feeling guilty, even before I make it to the counter. Guilt about the animals who died to make people fat, about the pure environmental destruction contained within the four walls of the McPlastic interior decor. I walk away with a Fillet O' Fish sandwich, no fries, and an iced tea with no sweetener. My great gesture of physiological masochism sobs pathetically into mopey silence.

I can only hope to compensate for my poor lunch performance by drinking myself half-blind tonight while playing Heroes of Might and Magic for the thousandth time. If I'm lucky, I'll slip into a coma around midnight and wake up QWERTY permanently imprinted on my face.