My Dearest,
I am writing to you from the Popeyes location on North Market in Shreveport. There is not much time. The rabid throng is approaching with no end in sight. We have run out of buns and soon the chicken will be rationed. Then people will be forced to drive LITERALLY FEET AWAY to get food. Or even order something else on the menu. Oh, my dearest. The carnage. The chaos. I am currently hunkered down with my manager behind the counter. We clutch each other, crying, and have exchanged letters to our families in case we don’t make it. The other piece of paper is my application for Wendy’s (because same money duh). Just remember that if I do not return, I definitely was not doing what I love. Unless I was pealing out of this parking lot.
Forever in Your Heart,
Beatrice
PS If I make it back, do NOT make chicken for dinner. Or ever.
