Oh, my aching head.
I forgot my PIN, in the
White Castle drive-thru.
So, yeah. They’re like, “Pay.”
And me, with migraine, cannot.
“My brain? Infarcted.”
Four cars behind me.
Drive-thru guy losing patience.
I’m almost crying.
Two eight two one? No!
Eight two one two?! That’s not it!
“I am so sorry.”
“I take credit cards.
You won’t need your PIN for that.”
(I am ninety four.)
I grabbed my Visa
And charged a Chicken Ring Meal.
Sunk to a new low.
And while my mood is still floating foul, let me just say this: When you walk in front of my car to enter White Castle all dressed up in heels and a fancy pants pashmina wrap, you’re just the same as the guy entering White Castle in paint-stained bib overalls and the frazzled woman entering White Castle with the three toddlers—two of whom are crying. In other words, you can stop with the loud “Do they give best-dressed awards at White Castles?! Is THIS what IRONY is?!?!” attempts at humor. That kind of crap will NEVER get a smile from me.
We’re all in this White Castle thing together, lady.
And I have forgotten my PIN number.