Do I hate myself for coming here, or did I come here because I hate myself? There is a shake shack RIGHT NEXT DOOR. My decision to come here is proof that I’m an irrational actor, a born slave that REQUIRES a boot on my neck; for my own good, to keep me in line. My decision to spend money on this overseasoned garlicky fried chickenslop is irrefutable proof that democracy is a cruel joke— something akin to making the village cretin mayor for a day. I understand now.