egg salad--the new prozac

So all morning I've been on the verge of tears. My once occasional waves of fecklessness have been coming with an increasing frequency and magnitude. (Don't feel sorry though--apparently this makes me trendy!) About to have to tell the bosses that someone died, I was saved by the ever-reliable lunch bell in my head. Down in the cafeteria at 11:30 on the f-ing dot, the usual choices just weren't doing it for me. Turkey sandwich--blah, sushi--had it yesterday and don't want to die of mercury poisoning or whatever, soup--too healthy. But there, glistening in all it's gelatinous glory, was the trough of egg salad. Two scoops, two pieces of wheat bread, and two nearly pointless slivers of lettuce and tomato later, I had my pacifier. Never in my life have I had an egg salad sandwich. This is too bad because with the first bite of mayonnaisey eggs it was like there was a cold dark rain cloud in my head that turned into a cozy ray from a commercial high pressure tanning bed (not that I would, err, know anything about that.) Hedonism to the temporary rescue once again.