finger lickin'

So there I was, booking it from terminal A to terminal T at my connection in Atlanta, Georgia.

(Yes, that is a long walk. Yes, yes, it is.)

I spotted a Pizza Hut.

It was only 10:09 in the morning, but it was a Pizza Hut nonetheless.

I started salivating and palm-sweating.

Yes, I decided. Yes, I would indulge in cheesy, crispy American goodness.

(The kind our boys are fighting for.)

Then, just as I was going in for the kill, I saw it:

The Lord's bounty.

The Big Kahuna.

The embodiment of all that is greasy and fried and finger-licking in the world.

That's right:

Chick Fil-A.

Now, for those of you who are not privy to my neuroses in person, I must explain:

I say I'm a pesca-vegetarian because it saves me the never-ending trauma of explaining and inadvertent insulting, as I rarely partake in non-seafood meat items.

So I looked to the left.

I looked to the right.

No one was watching.

No one would have to know.

It could be years, decades even, until the opportunity that is eating fried chicken in the birthplace of fried chicken arose again.

Oh, no, I couldn't let that happen.

Besides, I'm a Southern girl. It's my duty and social obligation to partake in the occasional Chick Fil-A number three combo meal.

I mean, my family fought in the War of Northern Agression and everything.

The waffle fries were cold and they didn't serve the traditional lemonade.

But the lovingly hand-battered and fried chicken with just a touch of sugar?

It was a party in my mouth.

betholindo at 3:22 p.m.

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