Scene: Chipotle 4:00 PM. Union Square. Friday – Labor Day Weekend.

First of all, whoever invented the Burrito Bowl is one hot bitch. You are a genius. Teach me your wisdom.

Now, I’m at Chipotle with my man preparing for the Labor Day weekend holiday. I like to kick things off right with a trip to Chi-pote-lay. And I’m not alone. Bitches be shoveling beef and sour cream down their throats before heading to the Hamptons and pretending to be vegetarians.

We get our food, we look around, there’s no where to sit. Shit. I am not afraid to stand there and eat my burrito bowl next to the trash can, but my boy prefers to sit with napkin in lap with fork and knife. Whatever. Opposites attract. He’s cute to me.

Cut to five minutes later. I’ve already eaten 3/4s of my burrito bowl. My man’s still looking around waiting for someone to get up. There are some options. Option One: A Four Top by the window in which some queen’s skinny ass is taking up one seat. His silver purse the size of an eight year old takes up another seat. And the other seats are full of shopping bags. He’s on the phone pretending to talk to someone—trying to make up for the fact that he’s eating alone… but he’s done eating. He’s just sitting there. So, we go up to him, and out of nowhere, some dude swoops right in and asks to sit down. The queen is a nice guy (so irritating) and lets him sit down.

Turn 180 degrees. Option Two. This man is getting up. Okay. Bring it. We walk over there to stake out the seats, and out of no where, two understudies from the West Side Story revival storm in, and say to this man, “We’re going to sit here.” One saves the seat. The other goes in line to order for the both of them. Biiiiiiiiitch. So, I take a picture of her because trust, I’m going to blog about you. That’s why I bought a domain name.

We are dejected. We are defeated. I wore flip flops for the first time in years, and my feet are getting blistered. I’m falling a part. My man is hungry. I want to eat ¼ of my burrito bowl in peace. We are Mary and Mary, and there is no room for us at the inn.

Cut to four minutes later. A four top opens up. I throw a bag of tortilla chips several yards, which lands on the table. It is ours. Ha! Jealous?

We sit down. And for whatever reason, the West Side Story Chupacabras decide their table isn’t good enough for them, so they get up, and come join us at the four-top.

We sit together. But we can’t speak. Chupacabra #1 is like, “I’m am so drunk already! This Margarita is so strong.”

What!!!!!!! They have Margarita’s at Chipotle? They have everything. They have the seats, they’re drunk off five-dollar margaritas, and they get to be in a Broadway production that will last all of 84 performances. They have it all. It’s so not fair.