I love Chipotle.
There, I said it. I’m not sorry. I remain unfazed in the face of norovirus and rat reports. I would eat there every day if given the opportunity.
This ^ is a Chipotle Chicken Bowl
This ^ is some guacamole
Woney loves Chipotle, too, maybe with the same zeal that I have. This is convenient because soon she and I will strap ourselves in a plane to meet in Detroit, and we are hopeful to find a Chipotle. What, you don’t fly to Detroit to have lunch with a friend? Just me?
Below is a list of my friends who like Chipotle:
- Woney
- Squash
- Nurse Bananahammock
- Felix
- Kindle
- Freddie
- Quan
- Javier
- Martie
- Madre
- Pooh
- Tigger
- Coach
- Daisy
I feel like Daisy is the one I have to most persuasively convince that we won’t die of Ebola if we consume some guacamole on top of delicious spicy chicken, but despite her affection for reading the news, I can usually manage to drag her in there. That’s because I’m bossy and she is nice.
I don’t know how long her patience with me will last once she reads the below, though. I may lose her.
A story, by Daisy:
“I bet I saw Star Wars 52 times when I was a kid. I don’t know how my parents could afford it but my brother and I saw it every week for months. Brother had Star Wars posters in his room, tons of them, and I would stare at Luke Skywalker all the time. I loved him. I was eight, and this was real. I knew that he lived in California because I read it in Teen Beat, and I knew that when I got to California and he saw me, he would love me back. He would just know I was his and he was mine, I was certain.
“I asked my parents for a plane ticket. They were in the kitchen cooking spaghetti for dinner. When I asked, they laughed, a parents’ affection for their baby child. It took them too long to realize I was serious, that I was not going to be placated. They put down their stirring utensils and explained that I could not go to California. That was not possible. They probably touched my arm and looked me right in the eyes with love.
“I weighed maybe 60 pounds but I flung every bit of that 60 pounds down the hall and into my room where I planted my face into my pillow and wailed. I was devastated. That was my first real heartbreak. All of my dreams were dashed at age eight by my mean, mean parents who never let me fly to California to meet my love. I know exactly how Pooh feels.”
A story, by Jimmie:
“I bet I saw Star Wars 28 times when I was a kid. Madre would make plans to go to the movies with her friends, and she would drop me and Martie off at the Luke Skywalker show and then go see her grown up movie sans children. It was the 70s; people did that back then.
“I loved Luke Skywalker. I always preferred blondes. I felt like if he had less nose and fewer ears, I could really fall in love with him, but he was still pretty cute. I’d have married him if he asked.”
I’m sorry, Daisy, but I loved him, too. Do you think we will come to blows over him? I never told you because I want to keep you as a friend, and everyone knows once you have a catfight over a man, you can’t be friends anymore. Sadly, I’d bet on you to win. You are scrappy and I’m a marshmallow.
Daisy is driving me to the airport so that I can meet Woney in Detroit. I might have misled you when I said we were meeting for lunch. We are meeting for lunch, but then we are going to strap ourselves into a plane to travel to Amsterdam and then do it again to travel to Bergen. That’s in Norway, bitches!
Bergen ^
Why Norway, you ask? Let me just tell you. Woney and I were planning our next big trip and we made fancy lists on Excel spreadsheets detailing our travel bucket lists, the money we’d need to get there, and what we could do there. Norway was not on the list. Spain was, though, and that was mostly because neither of us would have to drive and because it’s pretty. We were both gung ho about it until I found myself on Instagram following Pooh and Tigger and also some hot Norwegian guy named Lasse Matburg. Also gung ho about it until Madre and I took Pooh and Tigger to Key West last year and then decided to stay a week in JULY which is HOT and also FIERY and also HOT. I could not breathe, so when Woney called to yap, I opened with this:
“Oh, hello heifer, we are not going to Spain, FUCK THAT, it is hot as you-know-what down here and Spain is worse and I am not, I repeat, AM NOT going anywhere near the Equator, Woman, we are going to Norway where is it not hot plus there’s this Instagram model hottie named Lasse and I’d like to get a gander at those Nordic men, hey.”
And Woney said, “Well, hello to you, too. I could do Norway.”
So basically we picked it because it’s not hot and Lasse Matberg. Woney doesn’t like him at all which leaves more for me, yay! Plus I am bossy and Woney is nice.
I was lamenting to Daisy that I didn’t lose all those extra layers of fatty cushion I needed to so that I could look frail and cold in Norway and perhaps be comforted by Lasse or similar as I shivered on a fjord. Have any of you noticed that it is harder to find hottie hot hot men that that prefer squishy, white, middle aged women anymore? Anyway, I guess I lamented too much because this exchange happened with Daisy last week:
Is Daisy still being nice to me? Or is this a sick attempt by her to play upon my affections, my very 13-year-old teenage hormones/ heart longings in an effort to trick me into dying a horrible noro-Ebola virus death so she can have Luke Skywalker all to herself?
I still didn’t lose all the weight.
^Hot
^Fiery
In case it wasn’t clear, this ^ is fiery hot Lasse Matberg
I stole all these pictures from the innernet, Lord, please have mercy on my soul. And my ovaries.
Love, Jimmie 