Of Relationships and Fast Food

Not long ago, on a cold and windswept evening, I staggered into a fast food outlet in a haze of inebriation. This wasn’t anything out of the ordinary; most times I find myself in this sort of establishment, I’m impaired in some fashion or another. They go hand in hand together, really, fast food and being smashed. A marriage of lust; hunger pangs often cravings to the point of madness. A lust for 99 cent breakfast sandwiches can’t fill itself, you know. On this evening, I found myself in a state of euphoria, brought on by the combination by both a heater blowing at full bore and the aroma of greasy foodstuffs being cooked.

As I stood at the counter pondering the rainbow of possibilities, I was overcome with a sensory overload; there was definitely too much good stuff going on. Did I want the promotional over-the-top burger special? A greasy breakfast concoction? Some sort of sourdough delicacy? I couldn’t decide.

Eventually, I settled on about four burgers and a mountain of French fries with several cups of buffalo sauce on the side. As I greedily wolfed down the contents of my nocturnal feast, I wondered why I didn’t do this more often. It was so ridiculously good. After consuming the last of my scrumptious morsels, I managed to wander back home with a gut satisfaction about me, visions of similar encounters dancing through my head.