Tonight, returning home from Manhattan after an incredibly interesting talk with Roxane Gay (author of “Bad Feminist”), I began having impure thoughts about fried chicken. Conveniently, there’s a Popeye’s at the exact point I get off the subway in Brooklyn. This means I must smell fried chicken every time I come home, which means I must eat fried chicken every time I come home. It’s not a great situation.
I entered the Popeye’s, smelled the smells, looked at the menu, thought about things: my day, my hunger-level, the amount of money I’d spent in the past 24 hours.
In an unusual turn of events, I decided not to order anything; I had a perfectly good jar of peanut butter at home, waiting to be loved/demolished. As I headed towards the door to leave Popeye’s, a man sitting at a table, piled with napkins and a small container of coleslaw, yelled out at me. He called me a “tease.”