Strange Form of Self-Punishment
I already know that the little lunch counter downstairs sucks. Everything I've ever bought there (save for the homemade chocolate chip cookies) is a puddle of flavorless grease crap. So when I buy something to eat there anyway, and it sucks, I have only myself to blame. I recognize this.
Still, why would you put my buffalo chicken wrap; fully assembled; complete with lettuce, tomato, and blue cheese dressing, on the grill so the lettuce gets brown and the dressing gets ooky?
That's just wrong, man.