Hotlanta is my Mecca.

I am going to the ATL for Labor Day Weekend. I am beyond excited. This marks my second visit to the city of peaches, soul food, Margaret Mitchell, and T.I. My mother and I did a Georgia Ladies Only trip last August and it was fantastic. Hot as a pig wallerin' in the mud. But fantastic. And of course, I must return in late August again. A mistake, but a wonderful mistake at that. This time I'll be going (well, let's be honest, I invited myself) with a friend who is an Atlanta native. I predict this weekend will not be as innocent as Mother and I's.

I want rockabilly, I want Dirty South, I want pimped-out Cadillac Eldorados with spinning rims. But most importantly, I want food. And not just any food. Last year I went with the intention of getting a Luther Burger. This intention was not met. A Luther Burger (named after Luther Vandross, who died of a heart attack) is a bacon cheeseburger with a KRISPY KREME BUN. This is not repulsive, as some people may argue. This is a God-given work of art. It is pure poetry. If the burger could talk, it would softly whisper, "Doest thou love me, dearest? Then pluck me from this scalding griddle and allow to embrace your northernmost orifice of desire." Actually, that is kind of creepy talk for a burger. No matter. I will meet this burger, we will fall in love, and I will quite possibly never return to the land of chard and fresh fruits and soy milk again.