Slave to My Desire

You wake up, head still fuzzy from the previous nights migraine medication and the first complete thought to fill your weary mind is how very much you want some true soul food. You Google your northern state to find the closest joint. It is in the city, past all the construction and broken bridges down town. When you call all your friends and attempt t0 bully/beg them to come with you they will decline your threats/kind offer.
One hour later, you have drug your teenage son and his buddy, sand eyed from their sleep over out of your basement and locked them securely in your back seat. You use the map you printed out in your hand as a visor (the bright sun still hurts your sensitive eyes).
Eli empresses you by knowing every word to "Walk This Way", but when he manages to hit the high scream notes, your bruised brain winces and you turn onto a one way street. This normally would be of little consequences to you but you are now in the heart of the bad part of town, the same reason why a lot of your friends would not accompany you on this missive, and there is a happening over at the venue nearby. You save your self and the still singing kids in the back from a fatal head on crash by maneuvering through a series of parking lots until you realize how horribly lost you have become.
Twenty minutes later, you are back on the right street and bonus, you find a parking spot. You spring from your car chanting "Chicken and Waffles, Chicken and Waffles" loudly to ward off any of the shabby looking miscreants nearby.
The boys and yourself stand there looking up at the empty building that held the gastronomic delights you so craved and scream in earnest, head be damned.
When the waitress at Bakers Square, Heather, who is studying genetic engineering at the collage near by forgets to put in your order for chicken fingers you start to cry. Your son will push his waffle in front of you in the attempt to stifle the unfounded emotional outburst you are having and you will proceed to nam down his syrup coated butter drenched treat while dreaming of hoppin John and greens. When you look up you see the physician who performed your pancreatic transplant enter the eatery, you react by knocking the gooey mess into your lap in your vain attempt not to be noticed.
You stop at the grocery store and pick the ingredients for curry on the way home and remember how much you hate the south.