Even though we like to think of ourselves as flower-tressed and laissez-faire, with free will and the strength of character to do whatever the hell we want, when it comes down to the most miserable things in life, we really don't have many options. When finals roll around, we take them. When those wretched people responsible for the General Requirement demand that we waste our precious [partying] hours taking Astronomy, we register. And when our mothers force fed us stewed brussel sprouts and a whole host of other unmentionable horors, we ate them.
Enter the diner, one of the most brilliant and beautiful innovations of the 20th century. In our choice-starved rendezvous in academic agony, we appreciate a little jurisdiction over the small things in life -- hence our everlasting devotion to HBO On Demand, custom-made anything (we like Burberry trenches and Dior Homme cashmere suits, respectively) and the magnum opus that is a diner menu. We applaud the fact that a singular institution is courageous enough to produce Thanksgiving dinner, eggs benedict, falafel and Chinese chicken salad, and we appreciate the humanity of offering pretty much everything we can conceive of deep-fried and covered in cheese. Especially in our, well, hungrier moments.
