Chick-fil-a Junkie

I don’t know about you, but I’ve become a bit of a Chick-fil-a junkie. Though I know it’d surely be the death of me, I have no problem consuming the chickadee goodness week after week. And naturally there’s no other day that I crave for it more than on Sundays, the day the world must live without. Over the years I’ve come across several people who share the same sick cravings and most are convinced that those evil cows inject some sort of addictive substance in the chicken. And I’d agree that there’s something in there. And it’s not the Mickey-D sort of chemicals where you eat and then you’re hungry again a few hours later. It’s more cunning. It’s the type that weans you along week after week that somehow prevents your taste buds from getting tired of it. Such evil should be punished! Banished! Exiled! Well, maybe not exiled. Or banished. Or even punished. I mean, it’s only chicken after all. Besides, I want my Chick-fil-a.