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.