Dan Blandford - Creative Writing The Angst of DS Food Once again I trudge wearily into the dark caverns of the Ball State Dining Service. Three times a day I am doomed to come to this place, I think to myself as I mechanically swipe my identification card through the cash register. Three times a day, they said, you will be privileged to come to this glorious cafeteria and make your repast. Three times a day, I mutter angrily. They made it sound so wonderful. To boldly eat, they said, what no one has eaten before. Or so they claimed. Three times a day, to face again and again the dragons of indecision, the demons of indigestibility, and the accursed mashed "potatoes" of eternal, unmitigable dreariness. Three times a day. Three times a day! I notice the sudden quiet which has descended upon my fellow sufferers. I look around, cough nervously, and continue in a lower tone of voice. What shall I choose to attempt to ingest today? Shall I select the foul carrion, heated and reheated several dozen times over, of some abused and put-upon species of herd animal? Shall I dare the products of the dreaded Dining Service Grill, knowing that a single French Fry from that place contains sufficient cholesterol and saturated fats to cause the legendary Goliath himself to suffer several simultaneous heart attacks? Or will I submit to cowardice and endure once again the unrelenting blandness of the white semisolid which has, on occasion, been described as mashed potatoes? A thought occurs to me, the same thought which occurs to me every day at this time. It is a soothing thought nonetheless, and I sigh in relief. My indecision over, I quickly make my single selection, carry it to one of the many flat pedestals which dominate a large portion of the accursed building, and sit down to eat. Chocolate cake.