Blogspot, Destroyer of Bonnie Lasses,

Working at my current job, (henceforth referred to in my own personal history as the job that taught me to always (always, always) ask for more money), I've had to feed myself in Midtown. I haven't exactly found niche methods of obtaining food, as have my spiritual brothers: the fishing cat and alligator snapping turtle. Rather, my recent forays into eating 'habits' have been pretty absolutist--that is to say: I have the same fucking deli food every day. In Midtown, there are no choices. Chipotle is a crowded and distant luxury.

So for the last few days I've been going to the Liberty Deli and buying the same roasted chicken on yellow rice. I take it back to my desk, where I feast with my hands like I'm at Medieval Times--popular theme restaurant of Rutherford, NJ slash my youth. It's a quiet time in my day, and I enjoy it. True to personal custom, I take my sweet time and leave virtually nothing on the bone, taking the remaining skeleton and dumping it. Since I don't throw away any paper trash, instead piling it on my desk (in hopes that I one day become Jonathan Pryce's everyman bureaucrat character in Brazil), those chicken bones are all that ever appear in the trash bin.

I wonder how it must feel to be the cleaning lady, who nightly sees the same thigh and shin bones, polished as ivory beacons gleaming in the flourescent lighting, set agaist the jet plastic of the trash bin.

"Surely this is the work of no man!" I imagine her thinking to herself. "And that arid smell! It is as brimstone!" Actually, it is tabasco, courtesy of a bottle I stole from Chipotle two weeks ago.

Continuing her line of reasoning, she infers that my spit is a miracle solvent, kills me, isolates my salivary glands and wins a prize from the American Chemical Society.