I’m trying not to rip myself a new one; it was Fourth of July yesterday after all. It’s practically patriotic to pig out all day. Burgers, brats, potato salad. Etc. Whatever. Who cares. My friend’s father got his paws on these mouth-watering sausages from Bari, an Italian deli on Grand Ave. in Chicago. HOLY SHIT. Let me tell you about the speed of that thing flying down my gullet like a bullet. A little bit of mustard, onions, and homemade giardiniera. Oh my sweet, smoky lord.
But what disturbed me was the image of myself after hours. After the beers. It’s hunched over and haunting. I. I can’t look at it for too much longer.
Even though I was still full from the large intake from a few hours prior, I insisted on Burger King. My boyfriend said, “Sarah, you know you’re going to be mad at yourself and me tomorrow morning, right?”
“ARGRHH BLURPP,” was the wolfish sound that slopped out of my mouth. Poor Sean had no choice but to give in to my urgent desires. The monster wanted to HAVE IT HER WAY NOW, MOTHERFUCKA.
I passed out in the passenger seat before we even made it to Burger King. I’m pretty sure I was snoring when Sean plopped the beautiful brown bag into my lap. Immediately the meaty aroma that BK pumps into the air on the constant awakened my senses. I asked for buffalo sauce so I could dunk my fries. I fingered fries in the darkness of Sean’s car, plunging them and covering them in sauce up to their very tips. For some reason Burger King’s fries aren’t as delicious as I remembered, but buffalo sauce can make dog poop taste good. I feel like everyone knows that.
Here’s the worst part: as soon as we got home, I put on my pajamas, opened up the fridge, and proceeded to eat the rest of our leftover lasagna lying dormant in the largest baking dish we own. I ate with a plastic frozen yogurt spoon. On the top of the pink spoon is a rosy-cheeked girl with an ice cream swirl of hair.
I woke up during the middle of the night with cold sweats. I was constipated and sad, so I picked up one of my library books. It was only a matter of time before the spicy food bitchslap reared its terrifying head. But I snuggled into my covers and slipped into my book’s character. This too shall pass, I told my quivering stomach.