12:08. We've dropped off our precious cargo at their respective doors. All decorum is thrown to the snows and I become increasingly annoying and shrill. I recommend that we blow through all stopsigns, as no one is on the roads. I start ticking off the names on my current shitlists. I draw up grand plans for Christmas decorating. I demand a mild bean burrito.
The pilot indulges my last request in a desperate stab at silence and wins the gamble. I sit and mumble around tortilla and don't care that there is no response to my (profound) theories about fish fries and Kiss 98.5. But as my senses probe through lettuce and tomato the last cogent thought is that five vodka tonics have done their part in priming me for the realization that Mighty Taco has been serving up Chef Boyardee as hot sauce. And it rocks my world.
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