(Mid-August) I'm in Atlanta visiting for the weekend, driving down Northside Drive (arguably one of the nicest residential areas of Atlanta) on my way to have breakfast with Mindy when I feel the nausea hit hard. But it was different than usual.
I could tell that this wasn't going to end well, and it wasn't going to end well in the next 3 minutes.
There was no where to go. Multi-million dollar homes lined the right side of the street, an exclusive golf course flanked the left. (Actually, I'm not sure how exclusive it actually is - but I'm fairly confident they don't appreciate people throwing up on the greens.)
About 20 seconds before I was forced to select which affluent Atlanta resident was going to end up with my insides on their front lawn, I spotted a side street. The corner of the side street had a little park-like area that didn't seem to belong to any individual in particular - and so I selected a nice tree to conceal myself from Saturday-morning golfers and did my thing. Three times.
Fortunately, by the time I arrived at breakfast - I had recovered enough to enjoy 2 eggs, some turkey bacon, and a flying biscuit.
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