The day almost slipped away from me without getting the chance to eat lunch. A midday interview went long, and by 2:30 p.m. my belly was growling, so I ate a quick quarter pounder with fries from the McDonald’s that’s between the Wrigley Building and Trump Tower.
McDonald’s, Chicago, Ill.
I know I shouldn’t — it’s so unsafe. Both for my health, and for the physical safety of others. But I was in a hurry, g’dammit!
Picked up a quarter pounder with cheese value meal and a Coke at the neighborhood McDonald’s and ate in my car on the drive up to the north suburbs. It’s been a frantic week. I’ve got some vacation coming up, starting Friday, so I’m trying to lay a good foundation so the whole place doesn’t fall apart in my absence.
Also — the news has been unusually breaking lately in my parts.
Whatever. You know what else is breaking, if I continue to eat at McDonald’s? My new-found weight decline.
But do you know what’s NOT breaking? My not-so-secret love for McDonald’s, in spite of all the evidence that it’s terrible for you and the company arguably has terrible business practices.
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