Earlier today I went to the McDonald's across the street from my house. And by earlier today, I mean approximately an hour and a half ago. I know I know, "Zach! Macdon's isn't food! You're gonna die! Eat healthy!". Yeah, well, fuck off. I eat there because I can get a full meal for $3. Three Dollars. How much health food can you buy with that? A third of a pound of free trade healthy granola that makes me damn near soil myself when I eat it? Bah. I could rant for hours about how eating healthy isn't just "another option" for when you decide to eat and how there's actually a lot to it than just "choose the healthy choice". Seriously, watch the documentary People Like Us from PBS. This post isn't about food though.
I went to this local establishment because I was feeling cooped up inside today. I finished reading Hemingway's For Whom The Bell Tolls, drank tea, played with Gracie, ready H.P. Lovecraft's The Call of Cthulhu, drank more tea, and showered. Didn't leave the house once. It's not that I'm not a social person, I was just sore from helping the girlfriend's family move yesterday and didn't want to do anything. But I went to this McDonald's with my Nook, as I had just started Kurt Vonnegut's Slaughterhouse Five and wanted to keep reading, and a fine point sharpie pen. I don't know why I brought the pen, it just seems intelligent to always have a writing utensil. Anyway, I got my food and went to the back corner of the restaurant and started to read but found myself distracted by a couple of hipster lookin' kids sitting at the booth next to me that kept looking at me. I couldn't focus on reading, so I turned my attention to something else I enjoy doing. Writing. I took the napkins and the receipt and started to scribble thoughts down and ideas and now I want to share them with you.
Scribbled on the back of the receipt:
Surely, one would expect
a message scribbled on the back of a
receipt to be laden with a sort of mystery
that we've grown to expect from movies
and the like. As though there are a finite
amount of receipts in this world and
only profound messages should be
written on them. Well, fuck that.
This place should sell tacos.
See how easy that was? Not everything
has to be profound. Sometimes the rain
is just the rain and isn't a tangible
representation of the emotions of some
black haired, mopey asshole staring out
of a window whilst ruminating on the
evils in the world. The point here being
that language is made for communication.
Not all communication has to be deep and
profound. If it were, we'd all talk in big
sweeping melodramatic statements. Nobody
wants that, except for English majors. But
I really do think they should sell tacos here.
Now that I think about it, I seem to have inadvertently written something semi-profound on that receipt and defeated the purpose of that rant. Boo.
Scribbled on a napkin(part 1):
He found himself to be profoundly depressed on this rainy Wednesday afternoon. Those around him who normally chose to see him as an easy-going, funny person, seemingly incapable of such misery were quite confused as to why their good friend was so dang sad. When they asked him what was wrong, he said, "It's just one of those days." The truth, as it almost always is, was much deeper than that. It seemed that even with all of the self-confidence that oozed off of him, even with all of his success in the business world, he still could not convince the girl with the scarf, Eliza was her name, to fall in love with him, much less take him up on his offer to take here out to that coffee place down the street that Julie had mentioned to him before. It would seem that every tactic he tried just would not work when he tried to express his strange emotional attachment to this woman. Could the attraction come from the fact that she was something unattainable for this man who referred to himself in private as 'Alexander the Great'?
I could tell you where that little passage is going to go, but we'll keep it a secret for now.
Scribbled on a napkin(part 2):
This song called Royals(?) is on. It's pretty dang catchy. But I'm not writing on here about that song. I'm writing now to muse upon the cloud of perfume I just had to walk through to get back to my seat. I'm not going to comment about the state of femininity or what is means to wear so much perfume. For all I know, the perfume bottle could have just broken on the poor woman whilst she was putting it on. How silly would it be for someone to rant about how this woman has "bought into men's ideals" by wearing so much perfume, when it was an accident all along? Either way, I felt like I was going to asphyxiate while walking through it. I'm just glad it was a pleasant smell.
It was after this one that I left and decided that maybe I had had enough of the fast food world for one night.
That's all for now, folks.
Zach
P.S. 3 parts mello yello, 2 shots vanilla syrup, 1 part Hi-C Orange= Dreamsicle
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