9:17 p.m. Earlier I said these mozzarella sticks taste like garbage. I would like to amend that statement. They taste worse than garbage. I would prefer to eat garbage, because then there would be the chance I would get to eat a bite of something good someone started to eat but couldn’t finish, or paper.

The water outside TGI Friday’s is black now.

9:23 p.m. I keep thinking I hear people say “Caity.” I write down in my notebook that I am “definitely hallucinating.”

I put my head near the table to write more and the scent of old marinara and burnt rubber fills my nostrils. I sit back up.

9:36 p.m. A waiter tries to give me another table’s Boneless Buffalo Wings. Do not tempt me, Satan.

My 14-Hour Search for the End of TGI Friday’s Endless Appetizers by Caity Weaver (via ironchill)

"I blame the TGI Friday’s test kitchen executive chef (a prepaid cellphone that Guy Fieri texts recipes to while high on whippets) for making the prototype of these sticks accidentally one full moon—for by accident is the only way such an item could ever have been deemed suitable for human consumption—and then never copping to the mistake."

(via lemmming)

(Source: whitehilling)

gabite:

the deeper your voice is the deeper you can go in me

Life never gives us what we want at the moment that we consider appropriate.
― E.M. Forster (via el-ot)

(Source: amandaonwriting)