It doesn’t really matter where it happened. You certainly did not dream at the time that you wished to grow up and bowed, ground into cheap gristle hamburger meat rather than the marbled and fatty patties that low around you puckering their bewildered nostrils in and out with their fear.
Maximize pleasure and minimize pain. Say it with me, Maximize pleasure, minimize pain. As if. I mean, really. As if that is any kind of mission statement to be proud of, like you can just blame everything on George H.W. Bush, the cause of your malaise. You have no idea yet that the real gravy train of blame is still trundling along the tracks, biding his time until he gets a shot at the title and a world class opportunity to ram it in sideways for you and your ilk. Nothing will ever be your fault again, other than poor decisions on restaurant menus.
In spite of this, and oblivious of the pending absolution, you feel responsible for your destiny so you jingle the change in your pocket and mull how best to use it. You choose drink over food because ideas are what sustain you at this time in your life, and food comes along eventually. The chance to raise a bottle to the sky and talk so smooth it feels like action, that is what will move this agenda along and get us to the next chapter- scheduled to begin tomorrow.