Europa uses magic.

I have ultimately decided that Europa does not actually make food. That somehow they have food in the store but not really. I can only presume it is magic. I will elaborate.

At my lovely little job I have the privilege of running down to Europa to fetch my boss’s lunch. Every. Day. Now, I am not complaining because this gives me ample time to decide what I would like to eat when it is my turn. My turn comes around 2 or 3 in the afternoon. My boss eats around 11 in the morning. The difference in time is highly important. Note it.

11 and 12 o’clockers get a variety of food to choose from. The world is their buffet. Literally. Well at least Europe is, hence the name. They can choose from soups, salads, and my favorite, a huge selection of presscattas, which is like a Panini only round. So everyday I am wowed by this feast of men and find myself taken in by the wonders of the smells and the wonders of the wonder! I get Boss’s lunch and head back upstairs.

“I know exactly what I’m gonna get. It is gonna be delicious in my belly. It will be Awesome! Chicken Fajita Presscatta I will dominate you!”

So I go back up to my desk and I wait patiently for another three hours to pass so that I am able to run down ever so cheerfully and fulfill the dire need I have acquired for this one item. I wait……I wait……..I wait. Finally! 2 o’clock rolls around I shoot my customary e-mail saying I’m running out to lunch and like a flash, I’m out of there! I punch anyone in my way and I cut the line. When I finally get to the selection case not only do they not have my Chicken Fajita Presscatta, they have nothing. NOTHING!

But the worse of it is, since I have built up the desire to consume the one thing that can quench my thirst for food I tend to not go down without a fight. I begin with staring at the case for a long period of time. Willing the presscatta to come out of hiding. When that fails I start staring at the workers willing them to make me a fresh presscatta. When that ultimately fails and I can’t continue to make eye contact, I start searching frantically for the next best thing. But that’s just it, there is no next best thing. I go to the pasta section,

“Linguini please.”

“We have no linguini” (Italian accent, not being stereotypical, Luis has an Italian accent)

I run over to the sandwich bar,

“Italian sandwich with salami, please.”

“We are saving that for the person behind you. And there is no more.”

I run over to the salad bar

“Don’t bother, no more lettuce today!”

They don’t have food there. I am 100% sure that when the food runs out they just close the doors. But people keep filing in, me included. They hang around as if some magic is going to happen, the same magic that made the food appear in the first place will take place again. We are hopers and dreamers, my friends. Hopers and dreamers.

Then it’s spotted… the crumb at the back of the case. You may say to yourself, I would just walk somewhere else (there’s actually another Europa a couple streets away) but not my comrades and I. Oh No! That crumb is our salvation. We do not look down upon it for being so small, no. We eagerly and humbly ask how much do they want for the crumb in the back of the case? They tell us it is not for sell. Bitches.

Europa does not make food, not even crumbs. And I wholeheartedly believe that the 11 and 12 o’clockers don’t know how lucky they truly are and the magic they behold every day. Every slurp of a noodle, every crunch of a piece of lettuce, every cheese string pulled from a Chicken Fajita Presscatta, every crumb they nonchalantly discard. That is my heaven, that is my Olympus, that is my everything. 

Update: today I had a Chicken Fajita Presscatta. It was ok.

Angry In-Bred Buffalo

I have a sneaky suspicion that New York is trying to break-up me and my boyfriend. Don’t believe me? Well you're wrong. These are facts that will prove I'm right:

1) Anytime we talk on the phone, EVER, there seems to be a sports rally of semi trucks on the street all deciding to have a black market style race off. I am just as surprised as you that there would be so many semi trucks about but there are and they are determined to ram their engines just when I tell him “you’re breaking up, I can’t hear you.” And he automatically assumes I have said “We’re breaking up, I kinda hate you.” Which is close...but not really the point I was trying to make.

2) And then when I can finally hear him and I want to tell him all about my day I get to the subway. Now I don’t know if you know this, but subways are under ground. Which is highly inconvenient for my love life. As I am talking to him about how wonderful my day is and about this guy in the office that made me laugh so hard I almost threw up, I all of sudden have to get off the phone because guess what? There’s no damn Wi-Fi three stories underground which I call bullshit on by the way. We have it in airplanes now. Airplanes. Things flying through the air have wireless internet. I think someone somewhere could get on the whole not being able talk on the subway deal. Or at least, get on the ‘move the subways above ground’ project I proposed the second day I got here. Anyway, so my quick departure from the phone allows the little thoughts to build up in my boyfriends head such as

“that guy does sound funny”

“I wonder why they were talking in the kitchen for so long?”

“what was he doing? Trying to make her laugh?”

“that’s my job!”

“Is he trying to replace me?”                                           

“he’s trying to replace me!”

“And she’s letting him!”

“this is all her fault!”

“she should have never almost threw up laughed so much at him!”

“and then she got off the phone so quick, she probably is going to meet him and almost throw up laugh some more!”

“I hate her.”

So when I do finally call him back after my 30 minute ride home and I think everything is fine and dandy, I am bombarded with this:

“HOW COULD YOU ALMOST THROW UP LAUGH AT A GUY IN THE KITCHEN!!?!?!?! HOW COULD YOU DO THIS TO ME!?!?!!?”

Fact: Subways ruin relationships. They’re a threat to humanity all together.

3) And finally, New York has superciliously positioned itself around 1600 miles away from Texas.

I know Stephen F. and the Duke had their arguments but I think that they could have gotten over the whole, ‘who took the last piece of bread from the bread basket?’ fight they had so long ago. I mean, I just think it’s petty of the Duke to have moved so far away just because of the garlicy goodness of the roll basket. By being this far away, there is a more likelihood that one of us will get it in their heads to walk cross country to prove our love to one another and show just how more romantic one of us is than the other.  But with our horrible direction abilities one would undoubtedly end up in the wild country with a bunch of rednecks, a pasture full of in-bred angry buffalo, or, God forbid, Ohio. All the time, the other is also walking cross country to prove their love as well and because I, I mean one of us, have awesome directional skills would show up right at his, I mean the other ones house, and see that he’s not home, proving to me that he really doesn’t love me or he would be waiting for me, knowing I would obviously walk 22 days to see him, and therefore he should be here!!! UUUGGH!

Damn you New York. Damn. You.

Whataburger

Ladies and Gents:

I am not one to continuously throw things in your face however, I will say this at the beginning of this little adventure: I am from Texas. This blog is about me not being there anymore and essentially about missing Whataburger so much. And also essentially, yes two essentials, how I am handling living in a town with more than 30,000 occupants. I live in NYC. So just a little over that mark.

I have decided to do short paragraphs. I read a lot and when I read short paragraphs I tend to read more. This is a fact. Therefore, I believe everyone else is just like me and also want to read short paragraphs, even if they don't link together in any narrative form or structure. This first post is basically just me telling you, the few of whom that may ever see this, some warnings and precautions you must take:

1. I do NOT have good grammar. I will use too many commas in some places and not enough commas in others. I basically never know when to use a comma. I basically always think and believe in my heart of hearts that a comma goes where I put it but I can never be 100% sure. I tend to throw them around too much. I once poked someone’s eye out with a comma and was grounded from comma use for three weeks. Back then, I used them anytime I took a breath in my head so for three weeks you could say I wasn't breathing correctly. No comma=no breath. If it wasn't for nature, my friends, you might have never had the chance to read this blog. Good job nature.

2. This blog will most certainly contain disdain for the city of New York. Not all the time, I will also have a lot of praise for it. But if you like New York so much that you can't bare to read any negative press it may procure in this little ditty, then I suggest looking elsewhere, maybe find a blog specifically kissing New York’s feet, symbolically of course. No one would kiss New York’s feet. It’s bound to have gross feet. I mean I have gross feet because of New York so the likelihood that its own feet are clean is an outrageous opinion and you are not allowed to have it.

3.  I love Whataburger.

4. Finally, I am fully aware that this blog is a lot like other blogs. I am fully aware other blogs have pictures. I am fully aware that I have blonde hair. I am fully aware it is not natural. I am fully aware that this is something to connect me back to home. To connect me to a world that scares the living shit out of me. And to share what I have to offer which can be summed up as humor for the whole situation. I am more than likely going to suck at this, so no worries about long term plans here people. I just wanted something to do while I sat 9 hours at a desk all day answering approximately 1 phone call per hour. And why would I actually be productive? So here I am Internet. I like you. And I think this affair we’re going to be having is going to be a. hot and b. sexy. Sexy hot internet at your service, ladies and gents. Enjoy.