Last night/early this morning, I had a dream that I was back at Atlanta's Hartsfield-Jackson International Airport. In the airport, I saw something I'd never thought I'd see there, a Whataburger restaurant.
I had visions of small whataburger juniors and mini-pizzas for $1 a piece. In the dream, I got close to a bite of each one of those two foods. I came close. Along the way I was in search of my son Ben. He could have been anywhere in the airport.
In reality, I woke up. I haven't had a whataburger for more than a year down in Florida. I had pizza within the last week, and I ate pizza bites yesterday. I haven't been to Hartsfield-Jackson International Airport in almost six years.
I just had a homemade hamburger for breakfast here at work this morning. I'm not even hungry anymore, only thirsty.
Monday, February 17, 2020
Tuesday, February 11, 2020
Tuesday, February 4, 2020
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