My father got me to make my own lunches by giving me peanut butter & jelly every day from age 3 until I cracked in 3rd grade at which point he told me if I wanted something else I could make it myself. I'd been making my own breakfast by the time I was 4; by the time I was 12 I was making my own dinners, too.

I never ate PB&J ever again. FUCK PB&J.

There are people who buy timeshares because they don't want to think about vacation. They're not wrong, they've just arrived at a vastly different set of priorities than myself. My roommate down in LA eats nothing but Soylent and random overpriced bullshit hipster garbage from trendy restaurants, often two entrees at a time. That's fine, too, so long as I don't have to imitate him.

Amanda Respers, the yearlong eater of salads, says that “we bring a little bit of home when we eat lunch at work,”

I live with two women who can't eat wheat. When I'm not home I eat pizza and greek and pasta and other things that nobody at home will share with me.

But in my mind, eating the same thing for lunch each day represents a sober reckoning with the fundamental sameness of office life. It seems like an honest admission that life will have some drudgery in it—so accept that and find joy elsewhere instead of forcing a little bit of novelty into a Tupperware and dragging it along on your commute.

Holy fuck

But I am probably overthinking this.

Where's that new pinching fingers emoji when you need it.

“Maybe [they did so] just out of good humor, or maybe guilt that they’re not eating as healthy—that they’re eating a greasy burger or something—or going out and spending $15 for a lunch when mine only cost 80 cents.”

“Jealousy,” he concluded. “I think it’s jealousy.”

Maybe we have so little in common with our office-mates that our jokes and humor are the absolute basest.