The Paul's Burger Joint Birthday Incident

It's official: I'm 21 years old! It was a great going into a bar knowing I'm legally allowed to be there. I met Dad at a wonderfully trashy bar in the East Village called Cheap Shots. We had a few drinks, and a great time.

I stupidly insisted on going to Paul's Burger Joint on Second Avenue, where a half-pound cheeseburger costs only five dollars. After we sat down, Dad told me he ate before he met me, and wasn't hungry. I was angrier than I should have been, but eating in front of people has become very difficult and embarrassing for me. Knowing I would be the only one consuming food significantly increased this anxiety.

To add insult to injury, the joint was packed, and our server rushed the ordering. I know I am very indecisive (especially about ordering food and renting movies), but still I got even angrier. The minute the food arrived, I went outside to be away from the smell of sumptuous beef fat smothered in gooey cheese in favor of the even more enticing tobacco smoke wafting from the lungs of pseudo-intellectuals.

I returned to my seat and shamefully large burger, and thought of how yummy it looked. Then I remembered why I was angry, and directed it all onto the greasy amalgamation of fat and calories that sat before me. There was a private bathroom, which is a huge plus for any bulimic unleashed upon the public, but there was a huge problem: It was far too close to our table, and directly in Dad's line of vision.

Before I knew what I had done, the burger, fries, accoutrement, my Diet Coke, and plate were a scattered mess on the floor. People turned to ascertain the origin of the loud crash they had heard. The look on Dad's face suggested this was probably the first time I had ever truly surprised him, despite the fact that this was the second time I'd slammed a cheeseburger onto the floor. At least this time I didn't pick it up and wolf it down in secret. I actually may have, had we been alone at his place.

"You're in trouble buddy," said Dad, in an uncharacteristically melancholy tone. I picked up my bag and stormed off into the night. Honestly, I have no idea why he puts up with me and my bullshit. I owe him an apology, and an over-sized food item. I can be a real asshole sometimes...