You are a hater, so I hate you. Seriously, I’m finished with you. I’m disappointed in the negative statement you made yesterday about Chick-fil-A!
You wrote [quote]: “...we played [music] at the grand opening of a Chick-fil-A. I’m not proud of that.”
I was mortified when I read that you actually hate Chick-fil-A... And all I can say to you is... [bleep, bleep, bleepity bleep].
It’s been real,
Hi. How’s your day been going? I hope you are well.
Listen, I don’t mean to burst your bubble, but I’m reading your letter while eating a Chicken Biscuit, sitting inside a Chick-fil-A. That’s right, I’m in a booth at THIS VERY MOMENT, writing you.
In fact, I just read your words aloud to the woman sitting next to me. Louisa, is her name. She has an eight-year-old daughter with her.
After I read your words, Louisa’s daughter remarked: “Wow, that person needs a nap.”
Her words, not mine.
Anyway, maybe you don’t know this, but my mama worked at Chick-fil-A when I was young. To make ends meet, Mama made waffle fries, scrubbed kitchens, mopped
the floors, and wore a uniform. My sister worked here, too.
This place was good to my family. And by “good,” I mean: they helped us survive. Hate them?
Why, if you ask me you couldn’t find better fried chicken if you looked in Aunt Bee’s skillet.
Admittedly, I don’t know anything about the organization. But I DO know that during my youth, I’d visit Chick-fil-A to see Mama’s smiling face. And those memories are plated in gold.
Oh, but you didn’t want to know that. You wanted to be angry. So okay. Let’s talk about the sentences you didn’t like:
“...we played [music] at the grand opening of a Chick-fil-A. I’m not proud of that.”
Journey through time with me, friend. Let’s travel backward several years.