In an attempt to reconcile a shockingly dark display of a way-too-invested girl on her knees shouting “Why god whyyyy!!” outside the FacShack dinner line, I decided to invest in myself—well, technically, in a random John Jay freshman.
I believed that my foolproof plan would deliver me a warmish and probably mediocre burrito that would definitely be more disappointing than worthy of the wait experienced to obtain it. You see, it’s not about the burrito—it’s about the novel experience, the camaraderie of being the girl in the dining newsletter know.
Well, you’d never guess my surprise when I met my spot holder at the metallic cutout counter and found that it had all been an elaborate setup, “I don’t think my father Mr.FacShackNightBurrito would be pleased to hear about your unlawful behavior.”
Well, there goes that dream. Farewell, chipotle ranch!
