Forgive me Father...

...for I have eaten a McChicken. 


I can remember kneeling in the pews as a pre-growth spurt kid, palms a bit sweaty and prayer-like, and feeling the anxious flutter of my heart, waiting my turn for a moment with my priest to ask for forgiveness for all the sins weighing down my conscious.  These were moments I dreaded.  Thankfully, I no longer attend formal Confession (but am still inclined to capitalize the word).  Confession now tends to occur after long discussions with friends and significant others.  


But this McChicken was good. The fries were a bit salty, but frankly, they both hit the spot. The spot that had had too much Indian food lately.  I may even go back.