So, after a 12 ½ hour day at work, I decided that on my way home, I was allowed to eat whatever I damn well please for my 10pm dinner. The translation: I don’t need to eat any of the healthy shit I have in my house, I can choose whichever dirty, greasy fast food my heart desires to indulge in; no limits! Lately, I have been doing amazingly well with working out in the morning, preparing all my own food, and eating super healthy (I’m talking smoothies for breakfast, salad for lunch and some other light dinner of sorts [or sometimes just beer, but stout beer, so lots of minerals and other good stuffs in there]). This morning I woke up early, went in for 8:30am, had a meeting through lunch and didn’t stop until 9pm when I began the hour commute home. Now, I have just about everything under the sun about 3 minutes from my house, so my options for dinner were plentiful. Though, I was so exhausted (to the core), that the thought of straying from the direct path home was too much to bear, which meant that I didn’t actually pass any of the abundant dirty, greasy, fast food options that I so desired, which means that I was likely stuck buying whatever I felt like from the grocery store (BORING!). I decided that I would instead just eat food from my house, but grab some honey-garlic pepperoni sticks as my treat. I looked through the store for other treat-like options, but nothing struck my fancy (I was hoping for some pre-made dumplings, but alas, they only had the frozen kind; which are already in my freezer and served as dinner for at least 5 meals over the past week – not a treat). As I wandered towards my street, the clouds parted and behold: there was the hot dog vendor that I had so forgotten about. The heavens were rewarding me! I sauntered up to the stand and to my great dismay, the attendant was nowhere to be seen. As I almost gave up the ghost and headed home with my spirits recently raised and then bashed, the attendant came out and asked if I had wanted to make a purchase. Ecstatic that my dreams of a hot dog feast were once again part of my foreseeable future, I placed my order. Also, to my joy, the attendant was my favourite woman that worked at the stand (yes, I have frequented it enough over the years to know all the operators and develop preferences). As I dressed my hot dog and prepared to walk away, I left a dollar tip; it was the least I could do after she saved my evening’s fancies. I walked back to my house, happy that I had the pepperoni sticks in my purse and hot dog in hand; there was even a slight skip in my step. Sausage abounded.
As I entered my building, I stopped to collect my mail. I then headed up my steps, tucked my mail under my arm and tried to turn off my MP3 player while holding my keys and hot dog. This turned out to be one of my under-brilliant ideas. The catastrophe that followed was like something out of a vaudeville skit. As I tried to manage the things in my hands, the mail began to slip from under my arm. As I picked up the mail, my MP3 player fell to the ground; when I stooped to pick that up, the topping from the hot dog dripped down my arm; as I tried to lick that up (don’t judge me, you would have done the same; no one was looking!), the bag slipped from my shoulder and the pepperoni sticks spilled out, and so it went for a surprisingly long time. When I finally made it into my apartment with all my belongings, my hot dog was somewhat worse for the wear and I smelled of mustard and onion, as did my mail. This is when I decided that perhaps there may be such thing as too much sausage (though, I think I may just need to stop thinking I have eight hands!).