The usual
You know the one.
Every neighborhood has that gas station — the one you brace yourself for. We’ve all made peace with it. Nobody should have to.
- The light that buzzes like it’s judging you.
- A bathroom you’d rather not. So you don’t.
- Coffee that’s been “fresh” since this morning.
- A hot dog of genuinely unknowable age.
- Floors with a personality. A sticky one.
- Service with a shrug, if you’re lucky.
You pull in because you have to. You leave feeling, somehow, a little worse. It didn’t have to be this way.








