Comfortable With Conformity

February 11, 2001

I've been told I'm neurotic. I'm not really sure of the literal meaning of that word...I just picture someone like Woody Allen-- very anxious, nervous, worried for no reason all the time. I'm a little like that. Last night, I napped at S's (I'm gonna call him "S" from now on) and woke up at 11:30 pm, groggy, starving and generally neurotic. I wanted to go somewhere to eat dinner, but everything closes in his neighborhood at 11 pm, so we'd be forced to go to one of those late night diner-type places, where everything is deep-fried. I lost my shit.

I went on and on about how it was a conspiracy, our limited low-fat dining choices in America, a conspiracy to keep American girls fat. I whined about restuarant menus boasting about their low fat choices, and featuring 200 regular menu items and 3 low fat entrees, mostly of grilled fucking chicken, fish, and rice pilafs. I complained that there were probably lots of healthy, fast food places on the west coast, and how great it would be to revolutionize fast food eateries with more choices for the rest of us.

We drove to Ale House, defeated, when S pointed out Subway was open. Thank god for Subway! Seven sandwiches with six grams of fat or less...or is that six sandwiches with seven grams of fat...who cares? That Jared guy lost like five hundred pounds on Subway sandwiches, right? Go, Jared! I ordered a turkey sub combo from the Brian Austin Green-lookalike behind the counter and thanked S for saving me from eating garbage.

Am I neurotic?

There are so many more things I want to talk about, but I have a big test to study for tommorow and don't have the time. More later.

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