I think back, maybe idealistically, and remember a time when the world was more respectful, when we showed more sympathy and kindness towards other members of humanity, when we assumed that those around us were normal, like us. But today, I garnered further proof that times, they’ve changed.

After finally realizing that, in spite of what I’d said for years, I’d been far too optimistic in thinking that I was only one stomach virus from my ideal weight, and, after several hours of extreme suffering, I came to the conclusion that I’m perhaps two, maybe three viruses away from being glamorously thin. And I wasn’t willing to go that far, not today, especially not today when I have plans for the evening that include one of my favorite bands, so I thought maybe, just maybe, I should do something to combat the virus that had afflicted me and caused me to dramatically improve the portfolio of all of those who own interests in the toilet paper industry.

Okay, if I’m really honest, maybe it wasn’t a stomach virus. I’d considered it was the apple juice I’d had with breakfast. Or maybe the two nights of cheap tequila, one right after the other.

But, nah.

Probably a stomach virus.

But no matter what the cause, I was shitting with the frequency of young Hollywood going to rehab and it was time for a cure. And while I usually choose the herbal remedies, the ones touted by folks who think that nature holds the key to all of our health mysteries but who seemingly are incredibly unfamiliar with the benefits of a good bar of soap and a nice, sharp razor, when it comes to gastric distress, I know that the best cure is a meal of high-fat food. So that’s right, in the name of getting better, fuck the sunflower seeds and give me a steaming hot sack of grease.

I pulled on those green running shorts, the ones I’ve yet to write about in spite of the fact that they’re so hideous they’re deserving of some form of immortality, strapped on a bra that I’m sure I’ve decided to throw away every single time we’ve crossed paths over the course of the last three years, found a t-shirt from which the sleeves had been cut in an effort to hide the hole the dog had chewed, and, in my sartorial splendor, grabbed the car keys. Yes, in only matter of minutes, I was sitting in the drive-thru, waiting my turn to talk to the clown.

I placed my order (a #10, extra grease, with a Diet Coke), paid my bill, and pulled up to the second window. Even before the teenage girl with the pocked and hirsute cheeks ever-so delicately nearly slung the glass from the hinges, I could see my sack of relief, the grease already bleeding through the bottom. And then through the window came the remedy, my ticket to an afternoon with no flushing, and my car filled with the aroma of artery-clogging, shit-stopping food.

I drove with one hand, my other buried in the sack desperately fingering around for a chicken nugget. Before I’d left the parking lot, the second one was already burning my tongue. And I was halfway home, halfway through my nuggets, before I decided to start in on the fries. My hand searched the bag, all corners, the edges, top, bottom, then I purposefully upturned the cardboard box of fries in search of those little packets of wonder, the mother of all condiments, in desperate need of a splatter of ketchup for my fries.

But there was none. Absolutely none, nowhere to be found.

Oh I remembered that sign on the window, the one that spouted something about items that were available on request, essential items to eating fast food like napkins, salt, and ketchup, but I thought it was a joke. I didn’t really think that it was up to me to prove myself normal, that I’m not one of those freaks who can drive down the road and consume an entire meal without squirting some nastiness down the front of my shirt or, even worse, those creepy sorts who could possibly dare to eat their fries with no ketchup. By god, I’m normal—give me some fucking napkins. And some ketchup. Lots and lots of ketchup.

I figured they’d see me and, with one single glance, recognize me as the normal sort, the type who buys ketchup once a week, as regularly as milk and toilet paper, because the bottle we’d bought just the week before was empty, the type who uses at least one globful, maybe two, with every fry I eat. I mean, after all, I’d driven to the place as a presumably licensed driver, my car tag up to date, my registration and proof of insurance tucked neatly in my glove box, I was almost appropriately clothed and my command of the language had afforded me the ability to almost effortlessly talk to the bespeakered clown to place my order (and thus I was only forced to twice scream that magical drive-thru phrase “I can’t fucking understand single damn word you’re saying”), all of this further proof that I’m normal, perfectly normal, further proof that I need napkins. And some ketchup. Lots and lots of ketchup.

But no.

Those in the world of fast food apparently assume that even the regular-looking folks don’t want the essentials. And there’s the disrespect: the assumption that we’re all freaks, that we could possibly eat our fries with no ketchup. That’s just not right. I'm certain that it didn’t used to be like that.

So listen up, world, and listen up good: until you see me with a sweet-faced lady bustling behind me dressed in white, one who periodically says my name softly in an attempt to stop me from licking the light switch or poking at the food of strangers as I pass by their tables, just go ahead and consider me as one of the regular folks and, for Christ’s sake, give me some damn ketchup!