The Sandwich that Broke Me

What happens when the universe tests you with fried chicken

I'm standing in a chicken joint on one of those "hip" streets where gentrification meets poor urban planning, and somehow results in five times as many cars as there should ever be. You know the kind of place—fast-casual with exposed brick walls and Edison bulbs, where they serve free-range chicken on reclaimed wood but still somehow make you feel dead inside. My name still hasn't been called, which is either a new record or proof that time works differently in places that smell like industrial fryer oil and broken dreams.

My phone buzzes. I ignore it. The guy behind the counter is wiping down trays with the kind of focus you only see in people who have truly given up. I am, at this moment, one lukewarm sandwich away from a full existential collapse.

Scene: Proposition Chicken, 12:47 PM

Let’s set the stage: I’ve just come from Highland Hospit…