It's time for Another Homeless Person Adventure!

Today, between my therapist and my job, and between hunger and lunch, there stood The Chipotle Grill. (I've a long sidebar that deals with serious issues touched upon by the chipotle grill, but I'm going to exhibit something I rarely make time for in my writing: restraint.) I went in, against my will – last week, I became entangled in a consumptive love affair with The Chipotle Grill that lasted two days and ended, unsurprisingly, in heartbreak and self-loathing – and walked out afflicted by an unspoken regret so profound in its dignified silence that it was practically Victorian.

I considered throwing out the taco sack. (It contained one chicken, one veggie; one in a hard shell and one in a soft. They fucked up which filling went in which shell, no matter how many times I repeated my order. This mistake nearly ruined the meal for me, and my mind quickly assembled three or four other reasons to feel disappointed. My mind always has a few of these on reserve.) Then, as my office drew near, I started hatching a plan to get rid of these tacos in the most responsible and ethical way possible. I figured, given the quality of the neighborhood, my chances of encountering a panhandler along the way were VERY-FINE to MINT. (Where my nerds at?) I made a deal with myself: if I crossed paths with one of New York's Filthiest between here and work, that homeless person would find himself celebrating Taco Day. If no homeless people were to be found I would eat the tacos in the dark, and salt them with my stinging, self-hating tears.

Sure enough, with just three pee-stained doorways between me and my office, I saw a cup-jangling homeless man squatting on a building stoop, beneath a doorway marked "EMPLOYMENT CENTER." When he asked me for cash I said, "How about some lunch?" and handed him the taco sack.

"What's in it?" he asked. "Coffee?" That seemed like a weird guess, though I suppose it's what he wanted and he just took the image from his imagination, and pulled it out through his mouth.

I was pleased he thought it was coffee, because I knew it meant he would be presently surprised when he opened the bag to discover tacos – a food that has been kicking coffee's sorry ass for hundreds of years. I couldn't resist, though – I suppose I wanted credit. I said, "Nope. Tacos, man. TACOS!"

The homeless guy looked at the sack as if it contained spiders, and just said, "Aw, man!" Then he got the attention of someone standing next to him, and gave him a look that suggested, "Can you believe my shitty luck? I HATES ME SOME TACOS." I shrugged, wished him luck, and continued along the way, trying to forget that I now needed to add homeless guys with sensitive stomachs to my never-ending list of people I've disappointed.

During the Russian Revolution, children were sometimes dragged from their homes and eaten alive.