McDonalds

"Buuuuut Maaaaaaam"
-Cartman

Disclaimer: Tonight I am on a metaphor binge.

I ashamedly admit that I am two episodes behind in a usually fervent visual consumption of South Park episodes, much like a woman two months late in the receiving of her monthly menstrual cycle, irritable, and irrationally paranoid. Of late, I have been like a desiccated Japanese engine (Go Ford, or go home), ready to clench, seize, and lock up in sheer automotive hatred. I quote John Mayer fixed on a jaw grinding repeat: "How long before she burns away". John baby, I just don't know.

Last night as the election unraveled before a nation in anticipation, I sat folded in the steam of the bathtub, hosting my own aqueous pity party, minus the leaching guests or environmentally unfriendly party streamers*. Upon hearing the "official" outcome, by dint of Channel 9, I clambered into my in-need-of-a-wash sheets and assumed the fetal position. I awoke infected, by the man now positioned as the beacon for the proletariat. His message of hope is contagious; symptoms of the virus (funded by the Liberal party) appear in less than 24 hours, and I was amongst the quarantined.

Characteristically selfish, I applied his campaign tactics to my own life. I was optimistic, albeit slightly ruffled in my post-dream state, and flushed. I wanted to exude my own miniscule amounts of hope and change. As of now (10:06PM), the transformation has yet to complete. However, I did purchase a 2009 daily planner, appropriately handle menacing school loans, and plagiarize a cover letter for a Craigslist advertisement. Things are looking good.

I now sit swathed in Al Gore hate, warming my limbs in the artificial wood-burning heat emanating from the fireplace, a highlight of my parent's suburban getaway, in reflection of my third day as "mommy", although I prefer "yo ma". I took the twins to McDonalds for dinner. Inadequate in most domestic chores, I opted for the easy route, a red and yellow paradise, absent of smoke alarm sound offs. The fast-food expedition was for the inflexible French fries, artificially colored drinks, and exercise. The girls ran the play-place like white lab rats in a PhD constructed maze, frantic and determined. I felt like Judas, traitor to the temple that is my body. Fries hung from the part in my greasy lips. I could feel the panels of my esophagus tightening in an involuntary rejection of the Ronald McDonald endorsed calories.

McDonalds is the optimum place for all too necessary socialization. I am beginning to think that I did not frequent the establishment enough in my own slightly dysfunctional youth. It is no wonder then – to quote my sweet, but archaic grandmother – that I am terribly unconventional, clearly from lack of crucial exposure. I collected a fry-perfumed inkling that my fellow McDonald patrons thought me to be a teenage mother, not only with one tax credit, but two, conceived out of wedlock and at the expense of hard strapped taxpayers. To be fair, there were enough patrolling the yellow and aquamarine topped tables for this to be a justified assumption. I fancied a good scream of exposure, "I had a pregnancy test administered today, and I aint pregnant!" I paused and contemplated the follow up: "I also had my breasts and ovaries felt up by a female doctor." Sadly, I shied away from the candid admittances, and instead sulked in the corner, scribbling notes of rage at their passed judgment. In retrospect, I wish I had worn the badge of my teenage mother status with pride.

I finished the last hardened fry as the sun snuck away for happy hour and watched a cluster of young girls act out their finest moment, exchanging names, age, and t-shirt composition, still far removed from teenage cynicism and boyfriend swapping. Or perhaps, that was only my stripling years.

* I am not unpatriotic. I accepted via text slightly wet political updates from a politically bias, but nevertheless trustworthy source.