An Open Letter to Endnotes

Dear Endnotes:

Listen, I can appreciate wanting to be the center of attention as much as the next girl. I can even appreciate the value of interrupting someone for the sole purpose of providing largely useless information. All I'm saying is, I feel your timing could use a little work.

Take, for example, your taller, smarter, better-looking sibling, the footnote. The footnote provides the same information, but saves the average graduate student the trouble of flipping back and forth. I understand that Renaissance English requires a little clarification, from time to time, but seriously man, you are ruining my flow! Or rather, you are ruining Webster's flow. So cut it out, punkface. There is a distinct difference between being fashionably late (at the bottom of the page) and not showing up until people are passed out on the couch.

Sincerely,
Toria

You Devil Syrup!

Well, yesterday we went to the farmer's market. We, in this case, is me, Julie and the Trouts. (In case you're wondering, I like saying "Julie and the Trouts" to the tune of "Bennie and the Jets". Try it. It's fun!) Anyway. I have always been pretty nonchalant about food. Like, I don't think about it too much, unless I'm hungry. Which technically is all the time, but then I'm not thinking about how it got in front of me, or what's in it. I know, I know. I am one of those Americans.

Fortunately, I am also a rower. Or at least, I was for seven years. The main function of a rower is to sit in the boat and do whatever the coxswain/coach tells her to do. Anyway, my point is that I'm good at following directions. I just need someone to directly give them. For example, I always turn the lights off when I leave a room, because I once went to see the Dalai Lama speak and that's what he told us to do. I'm very obedient.

So when Jim and Karen explained that high fructose corn syrup is the devil, and that I probably should stop eating it approximately 3464710308231 times a day, I thought "No way dudes, I am sure I don't eat it that much."

Um, false.

So this is what I've been doing all weekend: I eat, and then I think "I wonder if THIS has hfcs." Then I find out that it does. Then I wander around the apartment swearing, and try to find something to recycle (to make up for it). Holy crap, people! It's EVERYWHERE. This high-fructose thing has officially rocked my white bread world. And that white bread is probably laced with...well, you know.