That's the last time I listen to popular opinion

My Tuesdays and Thursdays are pretty treacherous. They're not very scholastically demanding (I have two classes today, as opposed to three on Mondays and Wednesdays), but the killer is the break between the two classes. I get out of my first one at 11 a.m. and don't go to my next one until FOUR. The studious, industrious part of me that exists more in theory than reality thinks this will be an excellent time to get ahead on the big, demanding project that is my senior project and which I will have to present next month.

So naturally, I took Manfriend to breakfast instead. I was really excited. We went to Morning Glory in downtown Ashland, and neither of us had ever been there before. I have consistently heard they serve the best breakfast in this touristy town that prides itself on its awesome food choices. And as I'd skipped my normal breakfast of branny-raisiny goodness (or not-so-good-ness) knowing I'd be going to Morning Glory, I was fully prepared to eat more than my stomach should contain. I ordered the special--chicken-fried steak and eggs (hearkening to my somewhat Southern roots). Manfriend got biscuits and country gravy.

The portions were huge and everything looked great. That's where the greatness stopped. The steak was 1) not chicken-fried, but Progresso bread-crumb-fried, 2) not pounded flat at all, but really thick, and 3) horribly overcooked. And then there was the gravy. It was sausage gravy. Mistake numero uno (or really, 4 at this point). Who puts sausage gravy on chicken-fried steak? That's a big Southern culinary faux pas. Plus, the gravy was so full of onions that I couldn't even taste the sausage. The hash browns and eggs were cooked to my specifications, but had no flavor. The best thing on my plate were the orange slices. But I suppose I can't give the restaurant credit for that unless they also manage an orange orchard in the backyard (they don't). Manfriend said his coffee and water were good. That's all he felt he had to offer to this review.

I wistfully pointed out as we were leaving that the guy sitting at the counter was eating pancakes with fresh strawberries, and they looked tasty, but as Manfriend pointed out, it's pretty hard to screw that up.

Now it's been two hours since we left and I feel like this lump of nasty, tasteless mass (save for the onions) is steeping in the pit of my stomach, waiting to either make me incontinent or transform me into a shapeless blob seeking out the destruction of all that is pure and natural. I suppose you won't know what happens either way, because while I lack the decency to refrain from mentioning future...illnesses, I still maintain the dignity of not broadcasting their actual occurrences. And if I turn into a hell-bent veggie-hating blob, I probably won't be able to type anymore.