I look forward to that box of granola bars in the morning--reaching into the reduced sugar variety pack and choosing my daily mood. Will it be a peanut buttery day full of creamy goodness? Or a chocolate cherry day with sweet surprises in every bite? No. Today is an oatmeal raisin day filled with loathing and contempt and raisins. "I'll eat you anyway, good-for-me bar because you're the healthiest of all, but I don't have to like it." The only worse scenario would be eating an oatmeal raisin granola bar on the Metro.
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Despite the nasty side effects, I do enjoy Chipotle. And despite its popularity, the long line usually moves quickly and I can enjoy my barbacoa burrito with red chili salsa within a reasonable amount of time. But not tonight. Oh, no. Not tonight. Tonight the line moved slowly and without focus. The twenty feet to the assembly station took nearly 15 minutes. That's upwards of 6 hours when you convert CRT (Chipotle Restaurant Time) to SRT (Standard Restaurant Time). As I approached the counter, I realized the reason for the delay. Working front assembly station: A white guy. I walked up to order. As I started to speak, he said, "Cold out there tonight, eh?" Confused, I replied, "Barbacoa burrito." He countered, "Supposed to be colder tomorrow," reaching methodically for my tortilla. I looked him straight in the eye and said intensely, "Black. Beans." The moment passed. The rest of my time in the line, including additional filling and payment took approximately .8 seconds.
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I've started folding cranes again. This is not a metaphor.