2002-05-04 6:57 p.m.
On my way to the North Bay today, I decided to stop at McDonald's for a soda and a healthy snack to keep my hunger at bay until I arrived at my ultimate destination, a cornucopia of gourmet vendors nestled away in a seldom–visited enclave. The food court of the Santa Rosa Mall.
My day began with my voice lesson, but the day did not really start until I walked out of the lesson. I stood for a moment and thought about where I should go today; which direction I should drive. North or south? Something kept saying south, but my tummy said something else. As I stepped out onto the busy San Francisco street, I had a tiny rumbling hunger deep inside, and in a quiet voice it whispered to me undiscernable words. And I understood in the same way one does not need subtitles to understand a movie in a foreign language; the same way one does not need to hear the words to know the couple in that Honda over there are arguing. Even the marrow in my bones knew the answer to that question my hunger posed; knew the question which my blossoming spring hunger preemptively answered.
The question, the answer, Panda Express. And my soul and all souls everywhere that ever were told me to head north, young man. Head north, young man, to the Santa Rosa Mall, where the food court stretched and melted to the strawberry horizon. Where the teenage girls wore tight, low jeans—with sparkles carefully forming the shapes of eye–catching arrows pointing to available orifices—and begged to have their innocent mouths smacked as if by hammers with all manners of dicks and pricks as they clutched their Body Shop tote bags and sipped venti decaf double–triple mocha fuckleberry freezes. Ok, ok, ok. Not really. The truth is that most of me thought I should go visit my friend Caroline to the south, but my stomach was clearly in charge of this journey, and I think it was jamming my radar.
So, back to McDonald's. I just wanted a small snack, something healthy, something that honored my hunger for Panda Express as well as my respect for holistic health. Three cookies, a baked peach pie, and a large Diet Coke, please.
I sat on the tailbed of the truck and ate my health food, watching the fatties drive through the drive–thru lane. One fatty, two fatty, three fatty, four. So many fatties! They looked like they were poured into their cars. It was no coincidence that each fatty's car had bucket front seats—the only sort of seat which accommodates their waterfall–like lard overflow.
I took some pictures of myself, and people half–stared at me shyly, wondering what I was doing, and why I was not unhealthily obese.
When I arrived in Bronwyn's home town of Sebastopol, she shattered my dreams when she insisted that we NOT eat at Panda Express. Was this some sort of sick, cruel joke? What had I done to deserve this? I tried so hard to convince her; to bend her to my will. But, she was too strong, she would not rescind. We ate burritos instead, and walked around in a graveyard near Bodega Bay.
While my time with my much–missed friend was excellent, a part of me (the stomach part, to be specific) was left still hungering for juicy nuggets of virgin, juicy, willing panda loins. When, oh, when will this hunger be satiated?
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