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2002-03-30 3:28 p.m.


Behold the glory that is the inside of a Wendy's restaurant.

Adam bought me a book for my birthday called Letters to Wendy's. It is a collection of fictional letters written to the Wendy's headquarters, one every day for about a year. I keep this book in the bathroom, as that is the only place where any real reading occurs in my life—it is the only place I am forced to sit still with nothing much to do with my hands and eyes and brain functions.

My favorite entry so far is this:

November 17,1996
I eavesdrop on people at Wendy's. I notice they never talk about their assholes. It's not that I think an asshole, as an abstract (as Platonic form if you will), is so interesting. It's specific assholes that are interesting—my asshole as compared with Nick's, yours as compared with Ted's or Mary's. How one experiences another's asshole speaks volumes—it seems selfish not to make these volumes readily available.


I was so inspired by this book that I insisted to Tollef that we eat at Wendy's last week, last Tuesday afternoon. I ate one of their smaller bacon cheeseburgers and six chicken nuggets. I brought my own iced tea from work because I did not want to pay for a soft drink there, which was uncharacteristically greedy of me. I should have thought of their needs.


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