CHAPTER 28: Low-Carb Hullaballoo

This Atkin's diet madness is consuming most of the women in my office. And some of the men. I considered it at one point, but then realized that my strong points don't lie in well-sculpted abs or big strong arms, but rather lie in my incredible personality and inner brilliance. Unfortunately, this brilliance goes unnoticed to most of those around me. It's either unnoticed or just misinterpreted. Whatever. I hate almost everyone I see anyway. I'm not really sure why. When I was younger, I was capable of finding good in almost everything or anyone. I guess I used up all my happiness during college. I found some low-carb chocolate bars in the office kitchen, and felt I should throw them out. So I did. I wish I had some kind of tasteless, odorless carb solution that I could inject into people's salads and chicken breasts when they weren't looking. That'd be funny. I've become obsessed with the idea of sabotage lately. I'm trying to do a little here and there. Mostly just mind-fucking people. Trying to manipulate them indirectly. Especially when it comes to their relationships or self-images. Like the episode during lunch yesterday for instance. I went to this little sandwich shop downtown yesterday, that has all sorts of delicious soups and sandwiches and salads and cookies and everything else. I love this place. It's expensive and infested with yuppies, and driving there is a huge pain in the ass because you have dodge like fifty of those enormous Lexus SUVs and finding a parking space is really difficult and I just want to smash and run over and destroy but I restrain myself because they have these awesome, awesome BBQ pork sandwiches. It's southern-style pulled pork, dripping with grease and BBQ sauce. So fucking good. Yesterday I made it there successfully, eager to snatch up the spoils of my hard journey. I ask the guy making the sandwiches for a BBQ pork one, and just as he's about to wrap it, I tell him to just give it to me now, because I just can't wait. So I'm standing in line, devouring this magnificent sandwich, barely even savoring it because it's so ridiculously good I just want to keep eating and eating it. There are a few people ahead of me in line, typical yuppies getting their stupid salads and tuna-wraps and such, and I'm halfway done with my sandwich already and considering ordering another one. And these two women in line ahead of me are babbling loudly about their jobs and husbands and this and that, and one comments on the other's choice of lunch and the other responds with "Ugh, yeah I'm on Atkin's. I'm just starting the notice the difference, and it feels really great. You know who should totally try it? Susan, and Amy, oh, and Elizabeth! They'd be great on it!" and her friend asks her why she's on a diet, as she looks great already, and she says "Ha! Yeah, YOU can say that, you look amazing. I'm so fat and summer's coming and I really need to lose some pounds and blah blah blah," and she drones on, loud enough for everyone in line to hear here. At this point, I decide to insert myself into the conversation, as she's making it my and everyone else's business. "Yeah," I interrupt, mouth full of decadent, rich, fatty pork, "You're pretty fucking fat. I mean..." I take another bite, even though my mouth is already full. There's pork grease and barbeque sauce all over my mouth and my hands, "Look ah yoshelf" (chomp chomp) "You hushband musht be really disgushted wif your bahhhdy." And if this was true, then her husband is a total asshole. Her body was fine, in fact, I'd go as far to say as this woman was gorgeous as she was. "Shtay on that diet, shweetheaaart. HAHAHA!" Then I start choking on my mouthfull of pork, cough a little, swallow, take another bite, go "MMMMMM!" and then start laughing again. The woman's pretty much in tears, her friend glaring at me. Neither of them knows what to say, so they just leave their food on the counter and leave the store, the woman is crying now and muttering "asshole....fucking asshole" as her friend pats her back, trying to reassure her. Then they're gone, and everyone's looking at me as I finish my delicious sandwich, then I ask the guy behind the counter for a bunch of napkins as I pay him. No one said a thing to me, they just gave me really dirty looks. But I'm pretty sure I caught one of the Mexican guys working in the kitchen trying to hold back some laughter. And now I'm not sure if I should go back there anytime soon. I'm afraid they might sabotage my pork. Dammit.