McDonalds

Do you remember the first time you had McDonalds?

My emotions the first time I had it were different than what they are now. What was once so fun--ordering a Happy meal with extra cheese, BBQ Sauce for a side of chicken McNuggets, a milkshake with Strawberries (I thought they were real strawberries) and Chocolate swirls, is nothing short of a disaster now.

From the moment I walk in, I see the faces of the impoverished, the people who've moved past their zoftig teen years into an obese, cocoon of sexual limitation. Heavy breathers who think that smart investing comes from super-sizing. This is my former tribe, and I am no longer like them, as long as I get grilled chicken, no bun, a bottled water, and yogurt.

But the smell reminds me that this is unhealthy, this protein delight I'm going to get. I won't punish myself by not having the energy of a carb. I order fries and a Big Mac. And Ranch. But I'm only telling you that.


I eat that Big Mac around the edges so that sauce isn't squirting out. Not because of the mess, but because I want every last drop in my mouth, not my tray. I eat my fries before that even, so I don't have to share with my brother. But I am alone. He's not even here. And I am eating in my car, because I can't stand sitting with the people, who I'm not so sure I'm not the same as. A big, toothless group of me, but they aren't hiding.

I look across at the kids in the playground with Ronald McDonald on the side. None of them are playing. They're all eating. They're like me then. And I want to go save them, but my milkshake will melt.