When A Buck Buys Breakfast
Besides a few shreds of talent in the written arena, and a mind geared toward the accumulation of useless trivia, I possess a unique hidden talent: no one flips from positive self-affirmation to crippling self-loathing faster or more violently than me. And nowhere is this more clearly illustrated than in my eating habits.
I suffered through one of those moments earlier today. Hours before my job's deadlines added wrinkle lines to my head, and well before the tax man delivered a gut punch to my loins, I took an early morning break at McDonald's. With a dollar in my pocket and good intentions in mind, I bought a sausage biscuit.
Sausage, biscuit and shame, always shame. "It's Friday," I thought to myself. "Why not stop at that demented clown's diabetes dispensary for a dollar menu item." I was feeling good about myself. And why not? This buttery biscuit, glistening under the soft glow of my cubicle lights like the sweaty brow of Ronald McDonald himself, is truly, and unashamedly, one of my favorite breakfast treats. It is as enticing as it is awful; and it renders the wax wrapping paper almost clear from the biscuit's oily exterior. An afterthought when compared to the biscuit, the sausage patty is, well, it's a sausage patty. On its own, the sausage is a non-event. It's barely spicy and tastes mostly of manufactured barnyard parts. But place it inside of the biscuit and what you are left with is a food item with the singular ability to seduce and disgust all at once.
It's all over in a matter of seconds. From unwrapping to inspection to complete annihilation, the "sandwich" quickly disappears; but it's not over. The shame awakened follows you like an undead apparition until you acknowledge its existence and make room for it at your desk, in your car, on your lap.
And that's where I find myself currently; in the grip of my greasy self-loathing. But as quickly as I fall to the dark, I can just as quickly turn back around and face the light. For I know a quick, cheap alternative exists and where the McDonald's sausage butter bomb packs self-hate, this item packs the siren song of a million super-model angels.