for the "why didn't i think of that?" files

*The 5-pound burger with 54 toppings. I want these dudes to be my new best friends. I especially appreciate the choice of "honey wheat bun." It's all in the details. When I was living in Ithaca, there was this sub shop Shortstop that everyone talked about, and once I finally tried it I got a sandwich there every day for lunch. If I had a car, I would drive four hours to Ithaca twice a month to get a fucking Shortstop sandwich. I never strayed from my turkey and provolone on whole wheat toasted with mayonnaise lettuce tomato cucumbers and sweet peppers, but I bet beautiful things could've happened had I checked all the dozens of options on the order card.

*The to-do list book. Every year in high school I'd use the planner we were given at the beginning of the year diligently for the first week of school. And then I'd chuck it, abandoning all my sincere but naive good intentions. Somehow, though, when I got to college I became addicted to carrying a little notebook with me everywhere to write down academic and social engagements, chores, and things I wanted to do or acquire. Despite being a very irresponsible person, I've managed to save all of them, and looking back and reading my daily lists is a total trip back in time that I'm sure will provide hours of entertainment should I ever reach old age. The psych major in me loves peering into the lives of others, and this just sounds like a fun-as-hell project that will make this chick some money.

*Literary Hot-or-Not. Though I did the internet dating thing for a very brief spell before I discovered blogging to kill time at the office, I've only once met up with someone who contacted me on Myspace or Friendster. He was a published novelist, and he had posted the standard black and white dust jacket pictures. Totally cute. We made plans to get some drinks, and, being me, I had lots and lots of drinks before meeting him for more drinks. In person he was not at all even remotely attractive. But I was drunk, and then I did coke for the second time in my life because he gave it to me (and I was drunk), and then I almost slept with him (oh the mature self-restraint!), and then I woke up in Carrol Gardens or somewhere really far away from Midtown, which is where I had to be to work at the hedge fund at 8:00 that morning, and I showed up in my going out clothes and was too fucked up to even care, and I stared at my computer for an hour before I had to go home sick. Amazingly, it was a whole month after that until they fired me. Then the writer sent me tons and tons of ridiculous, unsexy dirty text messages that, coupled with my uncooperative and cold responses would've made the greatest post in the history of this here blog had I not been too lazy to compile the conversations before my phone auto-deleted all the texts. Point being, those black and white author photos are not just deceiving, they're dangerous.