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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