Throwing Poo

There has always been some concern that this website would be responsible for surfacing my thinly submersed neurosis.   Once I got all the big stuff out of the way and started digging, it would become readily apparent that my issues are not universal.  In answer to the question, I'm afraid the response will come, "Yes, it is just you."

Today will be the first test:  I really, really, really hate it when the Sandwich Artist ("I said extra pickles, Picasso!") at Subway does not add my toppings in the order that I request them.  It's not that I must have everything in perfect order. (I once knew a guy who could only eat his French fries if they were lined up on the table by length, from longest to shortest.  If you stole one, he would lose his fucking mind.  It was hilarious.  I think he's in jail now for cutting out someone's liver and wearing it as a hat.)  It's just that it always causes me to an internal dialogue that goes something like this:

Good Me:  "Did she hear me ask for lettuce?"

Bad Me: "Stupid bitch, put on the goddamn lettuce already."

Good Me: ""Be nice. She probably makes six dollars an hour."

Bad Me: "Not my problem.  I'd like to take a shit today, so get some fucking fiber on that puppy, pronto."

Good Me: "Maybe she always puts the lettuce on last."

Bad Me:  "Why, because it's an expression of her artistic talents?"

Good Me:  "Let's just quietly wait and see."

Bad Me:  "You pussy.  If I wasn't so constipated, I'd take a dump in your pants right now."

Good Me: "You're disgusting and I'm not going to listen to...HEY!  That had better been a fart!"

Bad Me: (snickering and holding my nose)

I guess there's always Taco Bell.