Just Try And Tell Me Fast Food Isn't Addicting

Because I'm pretty sure I'm (secretly, so don't go blabbing this post to the whole world) addicted to fast food.

Here's some evidence:

I eat in secret. Like, I'll say "I'm gonna run to the grocery store for...tic tags. Don't wait up for me!" (Heh, fooled him!) And I do go to the store, but I also stop by In-N-Out.

I spend money we don't have on fast food.

I get grumpy when I have to cook dinner when really what I want are some trans fatty French fries.

My body is starting to reflect my abuse. It would be better if it was meth I was addicted to...but my love handles attest to my real addiction: ChicFilA waffle fries.

Oh how I dream of that sweet, tingly cold swig of coke after a particularly salty and delicious chicken nugget.

I've destroyed an organ because of my addiction, namely my gallbladder.

And I find any excuse to go. "What? Prince Whoever married Anorexic what's-her-name? LET'S CELEBRATE! McDonalds anyone?"

So if you really want to get me a present this Christmas season, make it a gift card to Carl's Jr. Or a stay at the Betty Butter Center. Oh, I mean Betty Ford.