Unfortunately, for me, most weekends last about three minutes. Fortunately, for my pancreas, most of my weekends don’t involve this much food.
It all began on Friday evening with pizza. If you don’t know how much I like pizza yet, keep reading: you will. Pizza is proof positive of intelligent life in the universe. I’m so damn glad it happened on our planet first. Now, tonight’s pie wasn’t anything terribly special. It had crust. It had sauce. It had cheese and the all-important pepperoni. But it was pizza—and that’s all that matters.
On Saturday evening, I somehow found myself at Red Robin. This is a great place for cheeseburgers. If you don’t know how much I like cheeseburgers yet, keep reading: you will. Their burgers are excellent, of course, but what really sets Red Robin apart from the rest of the fat pack is a positively evil service they concocted called “bottomless fries.” That’s right, bottomless fries. Just keep asking for them and they’ll just keep appearing. I can’t believe they don’t need a city permit for this.
Lastly, on Sunday we accidentally ended up in San Antonio to meet up with my mom, who happened to be in town on business. We ate out again and I ate too much again. I don’t even remember what I ordered but I’m sure it came with either guacamole or a side of something golden brown. Probably both.
But it’s okay. I’ve worked hard. I deserve this. After all, how often does one finish writing a book? Once a year? Once a president? (Or, at the rate I write, once a pope?)
So now it’s Monday morning. Time to pay up. Time to step on the scale…
Dang. Up three pounds since Friday.
Man, I should write a book.
