What depressing meal made you want to give up on everything.

Christmas Eve, I was working late.

Broke and tired, I had a gas station cheeseburger and chips that was on sale because those

items were about to expire.

When I called to say hello to my mother, she mentioned how she gave some prime rib to her

dog.

I bought a discounted cake at the grocery store that had

Happy Anniversary Anna still visible in the indentation,

even though most of the frosting had been scraped off.

I got drunk and ate it alone.

I kept a tough schedule as a college student,

and I remember one night I was working my part-time

job in the library. The shift was from 5 through 9 p.m., and I had classes all morning and my

internship all afternoon. At some point during my shift, I realized I hadn't actually eaten all day

and managed to scrounge an old, flattened granola bar from my bag. I couldn't take a break and I wasn't

allowed to eat at the desk, so I hid under a bin of DVDs and scarfed down that disgusting

dry oat patty like a feral raccoon, enjoying a snack under a dumpster. Not my finest moment

or meal. The last thing my mother ever cooked me. I ate it almost a week after she died.

I didn't want to waste it, but I knew that once I ate it, she had really begun. The pain never

goes away. It just gets smaller and smaller until you can shove it away and it doesn't sit on you

anymore. It's my birthday today and I am eating a corn dog that I just cooked in the microwave.

Alone, naturally. A tortilla topped with ketchup and mustard. Don't judge me. Dry oatmeal,

...