Birthday Boy

Colonial Heights, Virginia. I dropped a load at our Chester terminal, took a shower, and came down here to a truckstop for a birthday meal. It’s family tradition. One cannot diet on one’s birthday. Okay, so a bacon cheeseburger and fries from Wendy’s hardly qualifies for a celebration. But I had my traditional chocolate Hostess cup cake. Odd that I’ve done this so many times on the road that I’ve begun to associate Hostess cup cakes with my birthday.
Next year I’m taking the day off. I’m going to have a nice “sit-down” meal at a good restaurant (preferably in the company of a beautiful lady). And instead of Hostess cup cakes I’m going to have some bizarre chocolate cake/ice cream concoction that is served on fire and that only a gay French chef could make.
I should probably check my journal and make sure I didn’t say the same thing last year.

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