Pizza Is Not a Meal

Hello everyone. I am safely and well fed-ly back at my desk in the warm and inviting city of Washington, D.C. Thank you for all of the comments and well wishes-- it is soul-restoring and humbling to be the subject of such an outpouring of sympathy and concern. I spent all day yesterday in the bowels (well, more like the closed cafeteria) of the police department of a county in an nearby state named after a nearby city. No, not like that.

We had arrived at at the police department at 12:30, and even then I was hungry. Worse, I couldn't get the idea of delicious barbeque out of my head, because I thought I was close to this place, which I was relatively speaking, but not in a lets-go-for-a-quick-bite kind of way.

But we didn't eat for a long time. We were waiting most of the day for something to happen, and at each moment, we thought that the negotiations were going to quickly fall apart, and so there was no sense in ordering dinner. Finally, at 8:30 pm, someone ordered pizza.

So, to recap, yesterday was an interesting day. I saw (but didn't do much) lawyering in action. I ate: two kashi breakfast bars, crappy 7-11 coffee, vending machine junk, and 3 pieces of pizza. Luckily, I stopped for a purple water on the way home, so I was totally revived and replenished when I got back at 2:30 in the morning.

Good story? No, not really. Not eating is not nearly as interesting, narratively-speaking, as eating. But I retell this story to confirm an important point: pizza is not a meal.*

*Except in New Haven.