Slow Your Pepperoni Roll
There’s this little place on the corner that has really good pizza and pepperoni rolls, and I like to frequent this establishment late at night when I am high hungry. This happens often enough that the two guys in there are starting to recognize me. They don’t need to be told, for example, that I would like a cup of marinara sauce on the side, please. So I go there tonight, and it is only myself and the two other guys in the shop and they start speaking to each other in a different language. I don’t know what language it is, but it is something from the middle east. I’m sure of it. It sure as hell isn’t Spanish. Anyway, when they started talking, my first thought was, “Are they talking about me?”
Does this make me a narcissist? Is it possible that they really were talking about me? What else would they have been talking about?
Quick follow-up: After securing my pepperoni roll, I walked home. When I got back to my building, I was again reminded that the landlord changed the lights in the hallway from a clean, white light to the gross yellow lights like your mom had. This is a big disappointment for me. When my lease is up at the end of the year, I can assure you that the gross yellow lights in the halls of my apartment building will play a role in my decision whether or not I want to renew.
Update: The guy didn’t cut my pepperoni roll in half. How the hell am I supposed to eat this thing?
