Oh, Denny's. Why Do You Exist?

I sat and drank a melted chocolate milkshake from Denny's this morning.

I didn't really want to drink it. I didn't really want to drink it last night when I ordered it either, I was just in a pitiful mood and thought that chocolate might have the healing power that I required. It did not, but it did have the same congealed-animal-fat elixir that Denny's apparently puts into all food served after ten.

As I sipped my Styrofoam-encased milkshake, I resigned myself to retaining the will to live so long as that will was not conditional upon hope of my life getting better. Yes, it is true. It is Monday, and I am an incredibly unoriginal pathetic plauged student and artisan. I probably belong at fucking Paris .

Yes, I'm aware that its quite lovely of me to publicly feel sorry for myself and my horrible upper-middle-class white Boulder existence on Martin Luther King Jr. Day.

Oh, how I wish that I could somehow manage to be piquant and alluring, or at least capable of rational and logical thought, while feeling hideous.