The first time I ever realized I was from the Midwest was I was sitting in a room, surrounded by New Yorkers, and I squealed when I saw two cows kissing one another. Cows are cute. I like flannel. Soda will ALWAYS be called pop to me. You can kick the boy out of the Midwest, but goddamn, is that buttermilk ranch flavored force within him strong as heck.
Magically, you find yourself in Manhattan (of all places in the world, wow!) and it’s restaurant week, but have inexplicably found yourself in the pitfall that is the student debt crisis and you legitimately only have $17.00 cash to stretch, because you work in a non-tipped restaurant and some kind soul took pity upon you, gracing you with dat cash money.