I just ate McDonald’s last weekend for the third time since I saw the movie Super Size Me twelve years ago.
This is how it happened: I was standing behind the counter in the organic grocery store where I work, surrounded by kamut berries & sprouted spelt flour & shoppers arguing about the micronutrient profile of kimchi. My boyfriend walked in, trailing the scent of cigarette smoke & corporate interests, and handed me a soft, paper-wrapped, hockey-puck-shaped object.
It turned out to be a fucking McGriddle. I love McGriddles. There’s just something about the combination of fake maple & heartlessly murdered mistreated dead animal on a pillow-soft bun that adds up to delicious, and I’m not even kidding.
So I huddled in the corner & shoved the unholy thing into my face like a rodent afraid of the winter.
That story doesn’t have a punchline. Maybe not all stories should have punchlines. Maybe our expectations of stories are forcing us into narrow channels where we’re only using five percent of our neurons & experiencing eight percent of our joy.
[spoilers begin here]
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