Nacho Love

For the most part, I’m a purist. No snickering, college friends. Hear me out. These days I eat clean, I really do. I avoid processed foods and medicine. I exercise. I make my own hummus and use aluminum free deodorant (yes, that annoying person). But this here’s confession.

You know that plastic cheese? The kind you get at the rodeo or bowling alley?

I love it. LOVE it.

(You know how Pooh is with a honey jar?)

Like that. 

There’s probably no nutritional value. It coagulates in the throat before it hits the esophagus. It’s an unnatural color and likely causes cancer. I imagine at the right temperature, you could even sculpt with it. But bloody hell it’s good.

I’m neck deep in an intense fitness regime right now. T25 look it up. It’s hard core. My day starts with a $5 shake and a bucket of sweat. So tonight at the bowling alley when my son requested chili cheese nachos, I went to the counter all stoic. Maybe I even wrinkled my nose as I ordered. But I quivered watching her lean into that body pillow-sized bag of tortilla rounds. I didn’t care that she broke some on the way out. Because by then she was making her way to the pump. The love pump. The CHEESE PUMP.

She squished two blobs on there. It was nice and hot, pouring like orange lava over those injured chips. I bit my lip as she pumped five more blobs on there. I salivated. Then she spooned some chili on there. You know the kind? With the tiny chunks of mystery meat? The chili and cheese made hot, nasty love on those chips.

I attempted nonchalance as she handed it over, then accidentally on purpose stuck my finger in the love. I gingerly licked my pinkie. And it was all downhill from there. I was on those nachos like a cockroach. Like a mutt on a ham bone. I’ll probably burp it up holding planks tomorrow, but I don’t care.

That is all.

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