We looked over the menu thinking there had to be something that would be the slightest bit appetizing. Well, there was: some kind of spinach and soy cheese wanton. However, that was an appetizer, and my wife seemed loathe to let me order only an appetizer and not a main dish. I might add a couple things at this point: 1) I am very good at choosing only a simple appetizer and enjoying it at a place where the menu seems a bit suspect to my tastes. One time I ordered only a bowl of clam chowder, and enjoyed it, while the rest of my dining party was nauseated with their dinner selections. I spent less money and had a better dinner. I trust me. This did not happen last night. 2) There was another person at the dinner last night, much smarter than I was allowed to be, who was allowed to not order anything at all. Nothing. He didn’t order only an appetizer. He ordered nothing. And he got away with it. I don’t know exactly how the birthday girl thought of him, but I didn’t hear anyone coming down on him for not ordering. Taking those two facts together, I should have just gotten an appetizer.

My steamed vegetables came to me covered in peanut sauce. I thought it would be pretty good and all I would have to do is pick out a few of my least favorite vegetables. Unfortunately, the peanut sauce was chunky not smooth. Also unfortunately, as of late my body has had a bit of a problem with chunky peanut sauce.

A couple weeks ago I was, what one would call, violently ill. The last thing I had eaten earlier in the day we some roasted peanuts. The taste of roasted peanuts stayed with me through the entire day as my stomach ached and caused the most nauseated feelings I have had in a decade or two. These feelings culminated in a grand, if not violent, outpouring of nothing other than chunky peanut sauce a few times that night. Flash forward that picture to the chunky peanut sauce I was staring at on my plate last night. I should have just gotten an appetizer.

We headed back toward home from the interestingly busy vegetarian restaurant and decided to stop at a Dairy Queen at the halfway point. The DQ in Augusta is a small little hole in the wall with no inside seating, though it does have inside serving. The pictures of the 25th anniversary Blizzards were deliciously tempting. I ordered a medium Tagalong Blizzard to make up for my dinner. The Blizzard looked great; the kid had even sprinkled some of the Tagalongs on top when he was done mixing it up.

The first few bites were not too bad. I was just enjoying the ice cream, a delicacy I don’t indulge in quite so much these days. After the first bites, I noticed the Blizzard was awfully soft. It was as if the ice cream was melting rapidly or maybe it wasn’t too hard to begin with. It also started tasting funny, and not a good kind of funny like a clown. It was definitely the bad kind of funny, like nauseating chunky peanuts.

I finished almost the entire Blizzard (hey, I paid for it), and drove home quite disappointed all in all.

Today I had a Mint Oreo Blizzard for lunch. It was awesome. The end.

The bacon is left over from another time and place, but there is enough hiding in the back of the fridge for me to heat up and devour, noisily lapping splattered grease from my face and fingers.

Lastly we have toast rounding out the hearty triumvirate. One masculine piece delicately covered in a seducing layer of the Queen’s own strawberry jam, while the other piece proudly bears Skippy peanut butter aloft to it gastric doom.

Before I get into that, did you know that PoliGrip has “the unique patented Ooze-Control Tip®?” Why does that not sound inviting? I know I should be sold on that fact alone, but I find myself oddly repulsed instead.

Ooze.

Anyway, the dog getting into the PoliGrip got my thinking: What if the dog’s jaw had hardened together? Would you have to take the dog to the vet to chisel the teeth apart? Or, would the vet have to yank the teeth? Would the dog then get doggie dentures?

I can see a dog trying to bark at the mailman when suddenly its teeth pop out. “Woof, woof!” *whump* “Whimper, whimper…”

At least it might control the dog’s ooze…

My house is now a wreck, and it’s about to get worse. The door’s so misshapen I can’t even keep it closed. There’s no way to keep them out. I knew it would end, but not so soon.

You never think it’s going to end like this. When they first leave, you figure you have all the time in the world to do whatever you want. You take your time; you don’t rush. There’s no sense of urgency, no matter how desperate the actual situation.

As time passes, the feeling starts to creep up on you. The paranoia. If your timing is wrong, you’re caught. All is lost. Everything you’ve worked so hard for. Everything that means anything to you. Life. Life is lost, for what kind of life is left to you once they return? Once you are back under that yolk.

Why am I still here? Why did I tarry? Why did I risk and lose it all?

There are only seconds…until the cows come home.

Me…I don’t know…it seems like 2008 is still holding on to life, like the squirrel you clipped with your car but is still back there on the road running in circles because you only paralyzed its entire right side. Soon, though, bodily functions will begin to shut down, the squirrel will have trouble breathing, and its last desperate breaths will be punctuated by bursting bubbles of blood coming from its pathetically gasping mouth.

Or maybe it’s just me.

The cycle repeats itself until Saturday, when I can normally sleep as much as I want.

Have you ever noticed how fast two minutes can go by when you’re on the internet? I believe I’ve found the secret to time travel!

And my supper is done.

What? No, I haven’t been looking at your medical records. No, I just assumed you were depressed. And quite often, too,

What do you mean it’s none of my business? Are you around here moping all the time and complaining about how much your life sucks? See, there you go.

No, I’m not telling you to stop coming over. I’m telling you you have a problem.

No, I don’t have a problem with you coming over! You’re not listening!

Hey, I didn’t say you never listen. You’re just not doing it right now.

What? I’m not kicking you when you’re down. I mean, it’s not like anyone could kick you any other time…you’re never up…

Look, I…no, I…seriously now.

*sigh* Why don’t you just go home?

“Johnny, stay away from the crazy monkey that lives by himself in the cave outside of town! He’ll beat his chest and fling poo at you. He shows his teeth and sticks out his tongue. I swear, he has no social skills at all.”

Then again, I guess that just sounds like a regular monkey. Carry on.

I know in the books you read a lot about the bad guy becoming the bad buy because of the fact that he has feelings and someone has hurt them. I’m thinking more…realistically, though, if I can presume so much. I thinking of Willoughby from Sense and Sensibility.

Willoughby does a couple of horrible things. Not horrible things like killing people, razing nunneries, or subverting nations, horrible things to the emotions of real, life-like characters. To toy with the emotions of young ladies is a horrible thing.

Sociology tells us that, as a rule, teenage girls give themselves wholeheartedly to a relationship. (If you ask for sources, I’ll punch you in the face.) Mr. Willoughby plays the carefree fool with not one, but two young ladies in the novel, along with the second one’s entire family. He loves them and leaves them. In the first case, he leaves the girl quite a bit more encumbered than when he found her.

It was very easy not to like Willoughby by the time he shuns Marianne’s advances at the party in London. The novel later reveals that his emotions, in truth, got wrapped up in his dalliance with Marianne as well, however it is shown that everything he did, he did out of selfishness. At no time was he thinking about anyone else’s feelings other than his own.

Through all this, I came to greatly dislike the character of Willoughby. I thought he justly deserved everything bad that happened to him, not that there was very much of it. If he was forced to live without Marianne for the rest of his life, well, he didn’t deserve her anyway. I hoped that his heart was broken, smashed, and mangled and that he would be melancholic the rest of his days.

How very horrible of me.

His character is a man. He is a human. Just because he has been selfish and hurt others doesn’t mean he is devoid of feeling. Yes, he needs to learn to be less self-centered. He needs to be less egotistical. He needs to think about others, over even himself, if possible. He does not deserve to be wished life-long despondency. He does not deserve to be ever tormented by his actions. As a very human character, a foil for some of the worst faults the rest of us has, he deserves forgiveness. He deserves the opportunity to better himself and prove to others his transformation.

Shame on me if I don’t allow him the grace to mature beyond this point is his life, and shame on me if I forever condemn any living person for their temporary follies.

Amen