Sometimes, on the verge of a depressive episode, I go online and look at the Arby’s menu as a way to ground myself. It’s a unique methodology of acknowledging the past, the 5 for $5 deal exemplifying just how distant my childhood has become, while also challenging myself to relinquish control by embracing the inherent uncertainty that tomorrow guarantees: Arby’s has introduced Steak Nuggets.

Unlike the traditional chicken nugget—a different nugget which Arby’s also sells—Arby’s Steak Nuggets are not breaded or fried, and the new nuggets are only available in select markets. This is akin to beta testing, to gauge demand and make sure nothing goes egregiously wrong before unleashing their next carnivorous concoction on an increasingly health-conscious, unsuspecting public. Current lucky guinea pigs include: Grand Rapids, Green Bay, Jacksonville, Tulsa, and Orlando.

I do not live in any of those cities, but I needed a reason to get out of bed.

Grand Rapids was the closest at approximately 300 miles away, or an estimated 4.5-hour drive from Cleveland per Google Maps. I couldn’t help but notice the disproportionate ratio of Taco Bells, Burger Kings, and McDonald’s restaurants to Arby’s during my first hour on the road, and I began to view Arby’s with a newfound tenderness. Arby’s was an underdog, like me, the middle child always tasked with keeping the peace. Whenever an Arby’s advert proclaimed they had the meats, I had erroneously dismissed the tagline as braggadocious when in actuality it was a plea to be seen as valuable—to be needed.

I remember this one Christmas Eve—Jesus, what a blizzard. We were starving, and Mom was trying to placate us with homemade Rudolph sock puppets. Little Lizzy screamed, “why are there two Ruldophs?!” She was unconsolable. Dad, of course, was at the bar, and just when I was sure Christmas would again be ruined, my old man himself comes busting through the front door, dressed up as Saint Nick, holding three of the biggest bags of Arby’s you’d ever seen. “Ho-Ho-Horsey Sauce,” he cackled.

Neither here nor there.

When I finally arrived at the Grand Rapids Arby’s, I feverishly parked as quickly as I could. There were only two cars in the drive-thru, but I wanted a sit-down experience to fully take it all in—plus I needed to use the restroom. The restroom was no better or worse than any other urinal I’ve used, but the phrase “SKUZZ DEATH” was carved into the wall which seemed notable.

The cashier looked tired. I thought telling her I drove all the way from Cleveland would cheer her up. It did not. Arby’s Steak Nuggets can be ordered as a five-piece or a nine-piece, she said, so I ordered the nine-piece, a classic Roast Beef sandwich, and horsey sauce. Someone else handed me my bag about ten minutes later.

The Steak Nuggets looked burnt, but that might be characteristic of all Steak Nuggets—I’m genuinely not sure. I dipped the first nugget into the Hickory BBQ sauce then took a bite. It was difficult to chew. The second nugget broke apart in my hands, and the inside was pinker than I expected. My hands were slimy and a piece of meat somehow got lodged underneath my nail—how is this better than a sandwich? I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the window and realized that this same person who used to be a vegetarian ten years ago just drove nearly five hours across state lines to eat inconsistent meat without utensils. I tossed the nuggets and took my sandwich to go.

While disappointed with the food, I’ve learned to like you, Arby’s. You don’t have to have all of the meats in every form factor to be loved or appreciated. Sometimes trying, and failing, and then receiving a negative review despite your best efforts still creates a positive ripple. Sometimes just getting out of bed is enough.

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Brett Olsen is a writer and humorist from Cleveland, Ohio. His work has been featured in McSweeney’s, Defenestration, ONE ART: A Journal of Poetry, and The Hard Times. His online presence can be located at his unfortunately named Instagram account Buttholsen.