The best thing about being high is that everything, even the most mundane, boring, wouldn’t-be-interesting-even-if-it-was-dipped-in-liquid-fudge (mmmmm fudge) things become funny. I sprayed some smoke through my showerhead perc and then began the long walk to Blimpy, with an equally high friend who kept asking me if I would be cool with him performing fellatio on a geriatric zebra — what can I say, he’s a man of charity. Together, we make a wonderful raoul duke and dr gonzo. The walk to blimpy is long, but each side of the street keeps reverberating like a ’70s radio station, and I’m just vibing. Even in line, I keep giggling at the absurdity of having a bear as the mascot for a burger place. I mean, I’m all for transcending our diet from the basic beef-pork-chicken, but bear meat sounds a little funky.

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This line’s not bad, only going as far as the door, instead of all the way to the Tattoo Parlor with Christopher Walken’s face in the window (“Walkens Welcome” — GET IT!?) Yay! My mouth is numb but I’m so hungry I know I’ll scarf the burger and fries down before I even remember to savor it. Hey, my legs are a little tired. I think I’m just gonna lean against this trash can and OHMIGOD THAT THING’S ON WHEELS. Steady, steady. Just grab a paper menu. One menu. Come on just one menu! We’re standing in line so long that I memorize my answers to all the questions they’re gonna ask me. “How many patties?” Three. “Bun?” Regular. “Anything grilled?” Onions and peppers. “Cheese?” Yes, please. “What kind of cheese?” Huh? “What kind of cheese?” Wait, there are different kinds of cheeses? Shit, uhhh what’s a kind of cheese? What’s just that normal kind called? “Uhhhhhh… regular?” “ ‘Regular?’ ” “Ummm…” “You mean ‘American’?” “Yeah, yeah, yeah. Sure.” Even the stuffed polar bear next to the cash register is looking at me with disdain.

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I am extremely jealous of my companions for having substances to help them through the hell that is the Blimpy Burger line.

It’s almost 1:00, and I’m hungrier than I’ve ever been in my entire life (not an exaggeration). The line is just reaching the door, and at any other fast food place, I’d assume it’d be a manageable 20 minutes before I had a sweet, sweet pile of french fries in my life. But the fortyish minutes we spend inching toward that holy grail of grills feels like fortyish hours.

Baked and his roommate appear to be having a pretty chill time, talking about long lines at restaurants in Maine. I am not amused. There are no comparisons to this experience. I see a business casual man balance his stacked quad burger plus onion rings on a tray and sit down at a table too close to the line. I seriously consider befriending or seducing him, because those onion rings look UNBELIEVABLE. When I remember that I shouldn’t use my babe-a-licious good looks to steal food (because I’m an Honorable Person), I just decide to sulk in quiet and just stare at the man’s food.

He notices. It’s weird. But I’m almost at the front of the line, so it’s OK.

I order a veggie burger and fries, and about ten minutes pass from the moment that beautiful package is placed on my tray until every bite of food is gone. (For the record, I finished my food faster than my three male companions. I am crushing the patriarchy.) In retrospect, the delicious heart attack on a bun was totally worth it. I might even jump in line again right now …

Chloe Gilke

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