I can no longer live inside this charade: I’m a little sick. I feel like I’ve spent an afternoon drinking Jägermeister with Liam Gallagher. I don’t blame McDonald’s for this (obviously, they did not intend anyone to live on their food), but I’m struggling. Whenever I start to chew, my esophagus contracts and I have to force myself to swallow. It’s not that the nuggets taste horrible; they still taste good. But my body craves anything else. “Where are the Cocoa Puffs?” asks my stomach. “Where is the Franco-American ravioli?” inquires my small intestine. My internal organs must assume I’m in a
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