I’ve been feeling a bit under the weather the last day or two. I’m usually good for about 2 headcolds each year and I guess this is one of them. So I decided I’d have a bacon, egg, and cheese sandwhich this morning to fortify my body with some fuel to fight it off. I’ve been trying to avoid bacon lately, but I felt like shit and wanted some comfort food. Eyes still half shut and umbrella in hand I stumbled off the 2 train at 32nd Street and walked into the little delis next door and placed my order. As I walked to register a retarded guy walks in the door, points at me and declares to the whole establishment, “He needs his mommy.”

The whole joint immediately falls silent and looks to me for a reply. The questions raced relentlessly through my head: Do I really look that miserable? Does he know about the War of the Worldsesque dream I had last night where I was on a plane that was forced to land on a city street while alien spacecraft bomarbarded the city? Is the universe trying to tell me something here? Should I just pack it up and head back home? Wouldn’t it be nice if I could just go back to my parent’s house and have my mom serve me a grilled cheese sandwhich and pea soup for lunch while I watch Dukes of Hazard reruns like I did when I was sick in fourth grade? What else does this guy know that I don’t? When did I walk into a David Lynch movie?

Dumbfounded and unable to answer any of these questions I asked the room, “Who doesn’t?”

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