She often gives up and has a few more beers, and so her Saturday nights typically end with a crying jag, hitting the Arby's drive-thru as hard as she hit the floor when the bull threw her, an impulsively-bought two dozen donuts (or doughnuts, as some prefer) (one glazed, one mix and match, each choice haltingly made as if her life depended on it) at the Dunkin' Donuts (as Dunkin' Donuts prefers) for "later," and around 3am, seeing the bruises that her night of faux sexy bull riding has welted up on her body, and the passenger seat full of Arby's debris, and down to her last three glazed, she vows to take a more serious run at not repeating this same conundrum, but realistically she herself knows that for her situation, there really is no hope of positive change..