Drunk eating

Being drunk makes me act in strange and frightening ways, and, somehow, the Jack in the Box drive-thru window always seems appealing and never too far away, even when it’s out of the way.

On our way down the hill from Mo’s pre-Halloween supervillain costume party (where I was mistaken as Chlamydia), Quressa and I took a little detour to Jack in the Box. The Jack in the Box on Telelgraph has been the late-night savior of many drunken folks, myself included on more than one occasion. Curly fries, 99 cent tacos, sour dough Jack--greasy goodness and a heart attack in the wings.

We waited in the long row of cars full of young people in need of a 2AM meal. And, when it was our turn to the shout into the menu board, I ordered myself a Bacon Bacon Cheeseburger, which is not my standard late-night drunken snack. I usually get the curly fries but after careful deliberation along with wise advice from Quressa, a sandwich would be the best way to go. I would be able to eat and drive without worrying about dripping buttermilk sauce on my coat.

So, I drove along Telegraph to the freeway and across the Bay Bridge with my Bacon Bacon Cheeseburger in on hand and the steering wheel in the other, and enjoyed every bite of the sandwich that I would later not admit to have eaten.