Chapter Three: Burma Hot Dog

On a sliding scale of bitterness, I would say I’m around brussel sprouts sans butter, which is actually not that bad for a Sunday. My grandmother called to tell me all about what she had for dinner with Jack and Jane, and Lew and Lynn; about her rheumatoid arthritis; that persistent bruise; about the creaking in her hip; about what she had for dinner with Jack and Jane, with Lew and Lynn.

After the Manchild woke up, I sent him out for cigarettes, because we’re beyond faking our addictions. Among our favorite vices now are: chain smoking, covert solo drinking, meaningless sex, and spicy chicken sandwiches, extra mayo. (The extra mayo part makes it a deadly sin. The pickles just make it gross). Oh, these are a few of our fav-o-rite things.

We made it out of our flea motel by noon and went to Disney for the day. I know we’re old. I don’t really have an excuse for going.

That’s the end of that part of the story.


There’s a reason why Burma only gets a hot dog cart in Epcot.

And that reason is rampant intestinal plagues.

When you are helplessly and hopelessly dependent on another human being for your survival, you know you have been humbled. This power is horribly abused when said Other is dangling a bottle of pepto bismol over your head bargaining the confiscation of your cigarettes because even smoke is making you puke. And honestly, they’re probably just tired of hearing your dry heave, but this person does not respect you.

But they probably do love you. As a girl, when you can finally number two in the same living space as the person you’re dating-but-not-living-with, it is love. They don’t even necessarily need to be home for it. Sure, it might be love if there’s a diamond ring, or poems, or sex where afterwards you really do want to cuddle, but the proof is in the pudding. (Emergencies do not count, though they are hilariously mortifying)

Example: in college I dated someone whose testament of love was the unconditional acceptance from his stepsister. I never really got that far, but I did poop while he was at work. Thusly, I can say, without shadow of a doubt, that I was definitely in love and if his sister weren’t such an overbearing cunt of a skank who can’t take even take a fucking joke, we’d be happily married with our retarded Shiva babies, and our white picket fence, and our dogs that we let piss all over the carpet.

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