Damn you Jeff Bilodeau. This was supposed to be my first day clean and sober, kicking the habit, getting that damn monkey off my back. That delicious monkey. But Jeff wouldn't let me. He told me I can't stop now. And fuck if he wasn't right.
I stopped at a place on the way home, a place I'd been to before. A place I remember having liked. Or at least thought was decent. Saguaro's on 30th in North Park. I'd been here somewhere in my first 20 days or so I think.
They serve their California burrito with pico only, but now that I was no longer bound by the pointless rules of my own make-believe program I was free to make changes. Put some sour cream on that bitch, amiga!
The addition of sour, plus the .35¢ fee for using a credit card had jacked the price of my precious to $7. On top of that, I had forgotten they use potato chunks, not fries. It was a bit of a letdown. I can't let it end on a down note, not after all the effort I put into it. Besides, I'm kind of afraid to quit now. I think my body's grown dependent on them.