The Missing Hamburger

Had an arduous medical procedure on Monday that I won't mention but which rhymes with "stolonoscopy," and am only now beginning to come out of the drug-induced haze of it all (as opposed to the drug-induced haze of, say, my 20s). The procedure itself was a cakewalk, compared to the heinous liquid I had to drink down at 5 a.m. the day of the surgery. And the fact that I couldn't eat anything at all for 36 hours prior. Nothing but clear liquids.

Luckily, beer is a clear liquid.

I've used that line like 20 times now. It's a good line.

Anyway.

My Dad picked me up afterward, because I wasn't allowed to drive, and took me out to the the Red Top, which makes the best hamburger in the state, if not the world, and I wolfed it down. And have no memory of it. Because of those crazy drugs.

I remember cutting it in half, remember eating the fries, remember snatches of conversation with my Dad, even remember a strip of bacon I pulled out of the cheesy goodness atop the burger. But no actual memory of eating the burger itself.

It's eerie. I've been trying to recapture those lost memories from right after the procedure all day today, and they've gone. Wiped away. It's like that tree falling in a forest thing.

Except with hamburgers.