Can transmogrification between woman and Mexican dinner option take place?

The answer is a resounding, “Yes!”

As I look up 9th Avenue from my apartment, the blinking lights of Burritoville becon, barely a block-and-a-bit from my front door to theirs. (And yet I must admit to having ‘ordered in’ (ordered food to be delivered) from them

Their menu proclaims “population 842” or some such number for the fictional town of Burritoville. Well, last night, it was + 1.

See there’s something very comfotable about their eating in area too — and in my neighbourhood, it’s the kind of place you can arrive in your comfy clothes (i.e. sweat pants, top and jacket that are really just publically acceptable forms of pajamas). And so I did.

Strolled in there and ordered up my Holey Moley burrito fix, complete with horchata and thank you for the free chips and salsa, mam.

Then I spread myself and my dinner across the comfy, vinyl banquette for four, shoes off, book in my left hand and burrito in my right, and all was right with the world. (Well, except for the third distraction: the presidential debate on the TV, and when you are splitting your eye time between book, Bush and burrito, things can get sticky.)

And the end result is that you eat far more than planned of aforementioned item on the right, and end up becoming one with the burrito, that is to say, leaving with you feeling like the overstuffed innards of a burrito, with your jacket functioning as the hold-all-in, wrapped too tightly burrito.



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