A self-annotated entry from an entirely other day:
It’s about nine thirty in the morning and I’m foraging through the fridge at work, pulling out little cardboard boxes from yesterday’s lunch. I spoon some fried rice onto the slippery shrimp and drop a wad of cashew chicken on top. I mash the whole mess together, poke some chopsticks in and turn around to find a female co-worker standing behind me with a sort of Dian Fossey-ish look on her face.
“You’re not going to eat that, are you?”
“Um… Yeah.”
“Cold?”
“Yeah.”
“Now?”
“Yeah.”
A shudder runs through her body.
“Who in the world has Chinese food for breakfast?”
“The Chinese?”
She doesn’t know what to say to that.
“Plus,” I add, “I’m going to have scrambled eggs for dinner.”