Poppin' Bottles in the Club

August 2009, Photo by Pookie, at Dunkin'
I MISS MY LONG HAIR.

Last night, en route to IO downtown, my sister and I saw a Dunkin' Donuts. We both sighed with relief. There is genuinely something relieving about DD to me (and her). I don't love Chicago. I really don't. I appreciate it. I'll rep it and its 1990s Bulls and improv scene and Wilco and Marshall Fields until the day I die, but...I don't love it. It's cold and dirty.

BUT I LOVE DUNKIN' DONUTS. It's like this magical point on the spectrum of childhood memories that doesn't cross with angsty adolescence, delicious tastes of sweet and savory that never turns too rich or too filling, a chain that has been part of my life forever and always unlike my old skating rink or Brown's chicken which disappeared in the romanticism of elementary school.

So, we sighed. Good. Dunkin' Donuts on every street corner. Good. That's how we like it. She said, "We'll stop."
"There's one by dad's house."
"What? I'll need some munchkins for the road! To pop in my mouth!"
Silence. Quietly, to herself, barely audible I hear

"...Poppin' munchkins in the club..."


Picture this adorable little facey in da club with a carton of chocolate munchkins...