I hate to air out my feelings for the internet to see, but I loved you too much to just let you go on thinking everything is ok, but it isn't.
And before you start thinking that something's changed in me, you're wrong. I'm the same asshole I've always been.
It's not me, Outback Steakhouse. It's you.
I knew something changed when you shrank the size of your porterhouse. It was a gigantic 20 ounces. And now it's a less impressive 18. And a dollar more expensive.
But you know what? I get that. You have to save money. Beef is expensive. So is good help.
Other things changed, too. You bread isn't as dark as it used to be. The butter isn't as spicy. The cheesecake is smaller.
But none of this threw up a red flag for me, until the day you offered special lemonades. I knew something was wrong. I knew you were trying to be different. But just like all the others.
Now there are smaller salad portions. And with your steak... you can choose two sides? What the hell is the meaning of all this? What happened to Soup or Salad and Choice of Potato.
The delicious seasoning that once populated my favorite New York Strip, once diminished, is now gone. Long gone. Lamps now hover ominously, 18 inches from my meal. My soul, poisoned by the lack of discretion, my lost privacy. And no longer do you play 80's music, instead, I get a rolling repeat of what I might hear if KS95, Kool108 and KDWB all got together and mixed their playlists in a pot and raped the now-defunct Jack format. You even took down the Sheila/Bloke signs.
I see what you've done here. You want to be more popular.
You want to be Applebees.
But it doesn't work for you. It doesn't even work for them.
IHOP fucking bought Applebees. Is that what you want?
It's over between you and I. It's over. Don't come back to tell me that you've changed, because I won't believe it. I'm a liberated man now. I can cook my own meals.
Enjoy the popular table.
But
