Today you are a falafel restaurant. You’re called “Chick Pea” or “Tahini” or “Pita Town” or some other completely unimaginative name based on one of the ingredients you offer. The name serves only to warn people that you do not bring pleasure to their lives.
“I ruin dinners,” you confess to your therapist, a bowl of olives. “One person who has terrible ideas about what dinner should be will tell his or her significant other, ‘Let’s go to the falafel place.’ The significant other will agree either because they picked the restaurant yesterday or they don’t think they deserve joy, and they’ll come to me and eat my food and it’s always among the least pleasurable experiences of their lives.”
“You could always kill yourself,” the bowl of olives tells you.
Tomorrow police will be baffled when they find a falafel restaurant hanging from the side of a neighboring apartment building. Written on the sidewalk in tahini sauce: “I’m sorry.”
Happy Falafel Restaurant Day!
