I need to remember that I can't be seen in public after going to Taco Bell.
I enjoy Doritos Locos tacos (almost a given; how can any joy-loving omnivore not appreciate the absurdity of taco innards sheathed in a giant nacho cheese Dorito?). But I forget, in between visits, the way their shell trades festive coloring and snacktual authenticity for structural integrity.
I hunch over the to-go bag as I eat my bright orange prizes, like a possessive squirrel with a penchant for drive-thru meals. But each taco starts crumbling the moment I lay eyes on it, and the bag somehow fails to catch most of the food as it falls, leaving that job to my shirt and pants (and, on one memorable occasion, my bra and one sock). As each shell expires, it leaves me with a handful of unprotected taco matter, which I apparently proceed to smear on my face, according to the car mirror.
I was supposed to go get my passport photo taken now, but it will have to wait another day. I don't have a strong sense of shame, but I can't bear to walk into Walgreens looking like I barely survived a taco tornado.
I love those things. When they first came out, I made myself sick on them because I ate so many. But ugh they’re sooooo good! They combined tacos and one of my favorite chips! How could I not like them?
And Taco Bell gave me the wrong person's order, and I didn't check because this literally never happens to me, so I don't even have a spicy potato soft taco to console me right now. This is heartbreaking.
Me: I could probably survive in the wilderness. I have the heart of a badass. I could make it in any situation if I had to. I’m a survivor.
My body: if you use a toaster after someone who eats bread with gluten in it, you experience Extreme Tummy Troubles™ and possibly a debilitating thyroid flare.