Ate a monster salami sandwich for breakfast and lay about in a stupid daze all morning. Now it turns out that the mater has cooked a monster lunch, and while something in me refuses to lie about in a stupid daze till six pm again, I know I'll still eat it it all. Sometimes I am certain that this cycle of eating and then staring glassily at the ceiling fan every Sunday must cease, I am certain of it to the point where I decide I shall go to the gym or dance the Macarena or climb up and down the building like Spiderman just to defy the eat-and-become-meat routine, but then, but then, what else can you possibly do on a Sunday?