It was the greasiest spoon I’d ever mustered the courage to step inside of. I nearly slipped out of the barstool as I took a seat at the counter. The waitress approached and slid me an oily menu across the chipped formica, and I caught a whiff of burnt toast and ashtrays. I could sense the residual smoke exiting her lungs on the exhale. She smiled at me and I thought her teeth might fall out and bounce across the counter into someone’s coffee or scrambled eggs.
I asked her what was good today. She told me that the bacon was smoked to perfection and the grits were to die for. Apparently their homemade gravy could induce a spontaneous communion with God, which I wasn’t sure was a good thing. None of this surprised me. I decided to pass on the gravy as I was too hungover to talk with anyone, especially God. I ordered the grits with extra butter and a side of bacon, and a cup of bitter sludge that was supposed to be coffee. I took it to go.
The bacon was delicious, but the grits were an epiphany.
greasy spoon (by silverfuture)
intrinsickness 