Why I'm Never Eating at McDonald's Again

McDonald's depressed me so much today that I've sworn never to set foot inside one again (as though that will put an end to my blues once and for all).

I drove around town looking for The Transitive Vampire, the book that I am suppossed to read and review for class tomorrow. I couldn't find it anywhere, but that didn't stop me from spending money that I don't have. An innocent trip into Target to buy diapers left me $27 none the richer. Sigh.

Since depression and anxiety inspire in me an urge to engage in self-defeating behaviors such as eating junk food and spending lots of money, and because I was too exhausted to make dinner (what can you make with broccoli and yogurt, the only two items in my fridge?), I decided to head toward the dingy golden arches on Archer Road. When I entered the building, the floors were dirty and the room was sort of smokey--not what I usually expect from the high standards of the place that invented fast food. Feeling especially self-defeating, I asked the nice, old, asian lady behind the counter to "supersize" it. She told me they don't do that anymore. Then I saw a sign that said "Choose options for happy meals! Apple slices, milk, juice!" So I asked for apple slices and milk, but they didn't have any. Then I asked for a newspaper, but they were out of those too.

My fish sandwhich was sqeamishly small and squished--about as thin as the plastic fountain-soda tops. Not at all like the fish sandwhiches of yester lore. I looked around the freezing cold room in disgust while Issac happily munched on his fat-filled, crispy chicken nuggets.

It's bad enough feeling like the only mother in the world who is too ________ to cook nutritious meals for herself and her children, but it is even worse to realize that hundreds of other people are choosing McDonald's for their meals too. In the twenty short minutes I was there, hordes of busy people came, got their bags full of self-defeating death food, and left.

The manager, a small black woman, wore a crisp white shirt and her hair was pulled back into a pretty bun. She had a black eye, and I imagined the violence she encounters at home.

An 8 year-old-girl and her mother discussed the drawbacks of this particular McDonald's location-- the wait, the dirty floors, the fact that no napkins were in the dispenser. When the girl reached up fill her soda, and I saw a huge, ugly rash all over the back of her thigh, I imagined it developed from a diet high in McDonald's foods.

I looked at Issac and felt very guilty.

I felt extremely pathetic as I drowned my woes in a soda while staring at the translucent french-fries on my tray. I ate them all, two by two, and then decided that come what may, I will never allow myself to set foot inside a McDonald's ever again. If I have to pack peanut butter and jelly sandwhiches with me everywhere I go, for the rest of my life, then I will! The place is just too disgusting.

I believe in the American people, but it's hard to watch them slowly killing themselves and paying too much to do so (me and Issac's greasy scant meals cost $8.47). I'd rather eat rabbit food. Maybe I could just pack pickles, ketchup, and mustard in my car for those times I'm hungry and craving a fast-food meal-- because that's about all there is in a McDonald's burger anyways.