One of the myriad reasons why it fucking blows to be a telecommuter is that, on your birthday, no one takes you out for lunch. That may not seem like a big deal to you, but when you watch your co-workers on a TV all day, and you see them all file out of the office once a week for some big-ass birthday food orgy, while you sit at your stupid desk in an empty spare bedroom gnawing on the same goddamn turkey sandwich you've eaten for the last four years... well, it takes its toll after awhile, ya know?
So, you can imagine my surprise a coupla weeks ago when a package arrived, from the ol' home office in Chicago, on my birthday. I ripped the fucker open and was greeted with the mother of all care packages from Trader Joe's, my secret Chicago lover.
You've got your chocolate/peanut butter covered pretzel nubbins, your licorice nibs, your habanero pistachios, your dried fruits, your Thai Lime and Sesame Honey cashews, various pastas, coffees, teas, assloads of trail mix and countless other nibs and nubbins. The fucking jackpot, if you will.
At first, I was blown away. There was a card enclosed that was signed by everybody -- birthday wishes and messages of relief after the whole Mayo fiasco -- it was a regular lovefest, lemme tell ya. But now, about two weeks later, after ingesting about 9000% of my recommended daily allowance of sodium, fat and Thai lime dust, I'm pretty much in a constant state of about-to-hurl. Oh, and keep in mind that we still have about 18 boxes of Girl Scout cookies stacked in every nook and/or cranny that I've been stuffing into every one of my nooks and/or crannies, so you can add an additional 13,000% of the RDA of high fructose corn syrup and partially hydrogenated soybean oil.
I swear to shit, I'm about to sprout a goiter the size of a hippity-hop outta my fat neck any fucking day now. My pee tumbles out in sugar crystals and I actually sweat honey. This is an recent photo taken of me after a fistful of Dark Chocolate caramels:
So, I'm not complaining -- I loved the care package and the sentiment behind it. All I ask is that next year, toss a fucking carrot or a celery stick into the box... and maybe a carton or two of Metamucil?