It's story time. And listen, it's taking all the energy I can muster to even sit up and type this, so y'all better read the whole thing.
One part of adult responsibility that alludes me is taking frozen meat out of the freezer in the morning so I can cook it for dinner that evening. I'm one of those "It's 6pm and everything is frozen" kinda people. Every day. (Don't be judgy. He's almost 16 and still alive so obviously I get it right sometimes.) I had two options. I could've either gone to the grocery store and bought something to cook (yeah right) or grabbed something quickly and called it a night. What do you do when it's late, you got a family to feed, and all your meat is frozen?
Well. I'll tell you what NOT to do.
I don't care how hungry you are, or how in a rush you are, or even how good it smells when you drive past, DO NOT get food from the Popeyes at the intersection of Marlboro Pike and Brooks Drive. EVER.
Last night, I was holding on to the toilet for dear life, my head in the commode, asking forgiveness for every phone call I did not answer, for every little white lie I've ever told, and for whatever it was that I did that was bad enough to deserve the hell I lived through last night.
Ate the chicken around 8. It settled in my stomach like a brick. Just feeling all kinds of gross. My stomach hurt and I was feeling kinda sick, but I had no idea what was to come. Honey, around 11pm, I swear I thought I was about to earn my wings and fly up outta here. Y'all know my stomach is janky, but y'all. I've never experienced the kind of pain and desperation and anguish that I experienced last night. That chicken damn near took me out, y'all. And I didn't even eat all of it... I had ONE old dry (and lemme not be brand new now... that shit was delicious) chicken breast and half a biscuit and now I know what Jesus must've been feeling when he took on the sins of the world while hanging on the cross. Because last night while I was damn near crawling to the bathroom to dry heave (because after the 4th time there was nothing left in my stomach but regret), I just knew that God had chosen me to show the world the consequences of shitty food. Last night I was the fake Messiah and I rose from the dead this morning to tell you this:
That Popeyes is the work of iniquity. I should've known better. Nothing good ever comes from Marlboro Pike, dammit. I went to that Popeyes once in the middle of the afternoon and they were completely OUT OF CHICKEN. Why didn't I learn? A chicken store that will remain open when there's no chicken to sell is not to be trusted. But what did my simple ass buy last night? Smh. Whatever you do, avoid that place like the plague. I do NOT want (most) of you to experience what I lived through last night. Take heed.
All night I writhed in excruciating pain. And I threw up food I ate in elementary school. Today, my throat and stomach are sore. I didn't sleep last night. I think I finally passed out from the shock of the pain around 5am. And, to add insult to injury, when I finally woke up this morning, guess what I saw first when I opened my eyes?
You guessed it. That Popeyes box. Taunting me. Reminding me of my trauma.
If you eat from that Popeyes, you get what you deserve. You've been warned. Don't be like Alisa. Cook your own food... at your house.
Or don't. But whatever you do, don't eat at that Popeyes.
I'm still half damn dead. Right now.
Sometimes I write things that are too short to publish. I needed someplace to put them. Here seems like just as good a place as any...