I can’t sleep.
I’m afraid my baby hates independent restaurants.
I guess I should say that those first two statements are unrelated.
Also, my baby hates independent restaurants.
All I ever want to eat is franchised nationally. Subway. Max & Erma’s. Wendy’s. BK. And now — do you want to know what I forced my husband to eat tonight?! Bob. Evans.
I physically drove my husband against his will into the parking lot of Bob Evans, home of the BOBurritto, where I ordered a Knife & Fork sandwich with turkey, noodles and mashed potatoes. Biscuit on the side.
Forgive me father, for I have carbed.
This morning, in an effort to avoid eating Bob Evans breakfast alone before 9 a.m., I made a shameful drive to Giant Eagle, where I bought “ready-to-eat” waffles and ate them in the car ride on the way back to the office.
Stereotypes, meet Preggers Teet.
The only locally owned joint I’ve had a craving for is Dirty Frank’s, the latest Lessner concept. But I’m afraid this brave act of defiance has become cliche in its own way. I mean, who isn’t in their 20s and also craving DF’s right now? I am the Everyman. The Hungry Everyman. The Hungryman.
If you need me, I’ll probably be at Applebees.
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