If The Man* buys you dinner, and through your own stupidity you order a dinner that sucks, should you spend your own hard-earned money buying something you actually want to eat? Or does the double whammy of wasting a freebie and then spending your own hard earned cash --- in effect, nullifying an hour of overtime --- worse than sitting here for another four hours with my stomach grumbling? In effect, double grumbling, because it's not like I wasn't going to be going all rassa-frassa-suffrin'-succotash at having to be here that long anyway.
What is wrong with me?
1. Tarragon tastes like licorice
2. I don't like licorice
Both facts known to me at the time of ordering. And yet, I ordered. The fact that even as I clicked the order button I experinced a flicker of doubt ---- "If a dish has only four ingredients, and one of them is tarragon, I'm probably going to be able to taste it, huh?" --- only makes me the more chagrined.
There, now I feel slightly better. Now they just paid me for fifteen minutes of whinging to a vast and indifferent audience of international web-surfers. Ye shall know the taste of my vengence! Raarrghh!
*The Man being The Man, of course. That is, the outfit for which I work, whose cunning plan it is to lessen my resentment at being here at till the wee hours by paying for me to order food from the plethora of middling-to-crappy dining esablishements which dot midtown.
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