Death by Taquito
I reached a kind of dire epiphany on Friday. I was at work, looking at my lunch — two taquitos, twin amalgams of fat and grease and starch rolled up in individual corn tortillas, sitting in a pool of their own fluids — when I realized that I’m slowly killing myself.
This wasn’t a new revelation, of course. My body and and I have had several conversations along these lines over the past couple of months. They usually go something like this:
| Body: | Why the fuck do you keep feeding me taquitos? |
| Me: | Because they’re yummy! |
| Body: | But they don’t have any nutrients. How am I supposed to keep you alive without nutrients? |
| Me: | Ok, fine. Here’s a twinkie. |
| Body: | What’s a mmmfmfmmffmd – |
| Me: | Yum. |
| Body: | Jesus! What the hell was that? |
| Me: | I told you. A twinkie. |
| Body: | That was cardboard. Squishy cardboard injected with yellow die and sweetglue. I can’t live on that. |
| Me: | Ok fine, here’s a bowl of Chocolate Yum Bombs. |
| Body: | No! Wait! I mmfmfmfmmfmfmmfmmmfmmfmfmf – |
| Me: | Mmmm. Chocolate Yum Bombs. |
| Body: | – mmmdmdmdmd damn it mdmmemdmd stop mmemmdmmemm – |
| Me: | And … done. How’s that? |
| Body: | What the fuck? Are you trying to kill me? |
| Me: | Oh please. I’m feeling more energetic already. |
| Body: | That’s not energy, moron. That’s a low-grade carb seizure. Honestly, I haven’t seen any fruit or vegetables in months. |
| Me: | Any what? |
| Body: | Fruit. Or vegetables. |
| Me: | Hm. |
| Body: | The stuff you see right when you go in the supermarket? All piled up? In bins? |
| Me: | Yeah, doesn’t ring a bell. What’s the packaging look like? |
| Body: | There’s no packaging. They come from trees, or the ground. |
| Me: | Oh gross. |
| Body: | Look, there’s a basic contract here. I’m a fantastically complex biological collective that depends on a steady stream of protein, iron, carbohydrates, and vitamins to keep working. Do you have any idea how much I do every day? Just to keep you as marginally functional as you are? I need food man! |
| Me: | Hm. |
| Body: | You see where I’m coming from? |
| Me: | Yeah. I do. I really do. Let me ask you a question. |
| Body: | Ok. |
| Me: | Are Milk Duds fruit? |
| Body: | What? No. |
| Me: | Vegetables? |
| Body: | No. |
| Me: | Ok, because I’ve got a super-size box of Milk Duds here, and they’re looking really good. |
| Body: | Put the box down. Get in your car. Go to the store. Buy broccoli. I’m begging you. |
| Me: | Sure. Sure. I’ll just — whoops! I seem to have opened the box by mistake. |
| Body: | Put. The box. Down. |
| Me: | I’m trying to but I keep — on no! I’ve somehow spilled the entire contents of this box of Milk Duds! Into my mouth! |
| Body: | Please don’t mmfmfmmfmmmfmf |
| Me: | Mmmm. Nutrients. |
Anyway. I think I’m finally realizing that something has to change, because I went to the supermarket on Saturday, and, instead of blowing by produce on my way to starch & sugar, stopped and picked up several severely unappetizing-looking items — spinach and pears and carrots and the like. And, more than that, I went home and made a good-faith effort to actually eat them. This may not sound like progress to normal people, but it’s a minor revolution for me.
But we’ll see. I’m already experiencing taquito withdrawal.
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