Some days when I feel dejected and ready to throw myself down the bridge of despair, along comes McDonald�s. There is something unmistakably satisfying about the fat surging through my body as I bite into my BigMac and the oil and salt residues the stain my fingers and contain absolutely no nutritional value. Perhaps it�s the feeling of my arteries clogging and the promise of dieing just a few years earlier that is subconsciously so satisfying. Or perhaps it�s a sick attempt to amplify my pain and self hatred by making myself flabby and grotesque. Or perhaps it�s a simple sugar/fat rush that my body needs so that it�s more preoccupied with riding me of the harmful trans-fats than feeling sorry I was ever born. Whatever the reason, it works. Of course, I only live to regret it.