Disappointment is spending all day in work, exhausted, thinking about the big-ass plate of Mexican food you’re going to enjoy for dinner.  It is leaving work just before 6pm and deciding to walk to said Mexican place all the way from your office, because it is so nice out.  It is getting to this place, after such a long walk, to find that it is closed because of the fucking Immigrant Walk Out. 

Rage is walking back to your neighborhood to hit up your local Mexican place, feeling certain that it would be open.  Unlike your favorite place, your local Mexican place is a mildly upscale joint that (you think) would not tolerate such truancy.  Rage is finally getting to this place, after a significant walk, to find that it too is closed because of the goddamn Day Without Immigrants. 

Mania is what builds when you walk from your local Mexican place to the only other reliable Mexican place you know, which is back in the direction of the original favorite place.  It is what happens when you start obsessing over the Mexican food that you so desperately wanted all day long and over the goddamn immigrants celebrating the goddamn immigrant walkout.  It is plotting the physical harm of those who might stop you from getting a fucking burrito.

Homicide is what would have happened had that third Mexican place been closed.  Fortunately, it was not.

Satisfaction is what you feel when you have finally made it back to your apartment and you are absolutely gorging yourself on Mexican food (and on the slice of pizza you picked up for good measure on the way home), after spending nearly two hours walking four miles around New York City.  Your previous disappointment, rage, and mania all are washed away in a sea of guacamole, sour cream, and tomato sauce.     

The moral: Immigrants are vital to this nation, and, more importantly, to my diet (and not to mention to my sexual health).  I, Jason Mulgrew, fully support any and all efforts to keep immigrants in this country, so that they can keep making me tostadas and giving me lap dances.  And I implore you, my dear readers, to write your local congressperson to tell him/her that you feel the same way.   

Let’s keep the immigrants in America.  Because if I have to keep eating tacos made in some hipster joint in the Lower East Side and am not able to enjoy the real thing, I am seriously going to flip the fuck out. 

[Note: I have not divulged where I work or live.  Those points on the maps are close to where I work and live, but not actually where I do so.  Some of you are sick fucks and I don't want you to know this level of information about me.]