An Ode to Waffle House on The Strip
Life hasn't been the same without you, my late nights of recklessness are nothing without you.
The dim fluorescent lights, the cop by the door and the leftover syrup on the table have me longing for you. How do I fill my drunken food void? How do I even make a waffle? What exactly is a waffle? I ask these questions to myself every day.
You were there for me when I was sad, you were there for me when I was on top of the world. How do I live without your stain spotted silverware and oddly fascinating waitresses with cool scars? Tell me, I need to know.
The North won't understand you, but I do and will stand by your lewd side every Friday and Saturday night around 2 AM
You're cheap, like Auburn football and those weird mints you leave out for customers to put in their pockets and forget about them until laundry day.
You're warm, like sitting next to a fireplace on Christmas morning because your AC has been out for weeks. I'm sweating.
Where have you gone? And why do I keep burning my bacon?
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