Picture this: it’s midnight. Nothing’s open. My sweet tooth is screaming for attention. Suddenly, my friend leans over and whispers the words of salvation: “Taco Bell is open.” I shoot out of bed like I just heard the ice cream truck outside. Minutes later, I’m reunited with my first love, Taco Bell. I order a combo box, grab my food, and notice a tragic absence: no cinnamon twists. No worries though, put it in reverse, Terry, I roll back through and secure my extra bag of sugary air spirals.
I eat my burrito. I eat my taco. Life is good. Then my friend, out of nowhere, commits blasphemy: “Cinnamon twists are nasty. They taste like chemicals.” Excuse me? Not on my watch. I gaslight her like a pro, “No, you just don’t appreciate art.” Then I take a bite. Instant regret. It tastes like a cinnamon twist marinated in disinfectant. I sniff it, it smells like degreaser. I’m a certified cinnamon twist enjoyer, so this was a personal attack. Cut to me, 12:18 a.m., on the phone with poison control like, “Hi, yeah, I think I just licked the inside of a janitor’s mop bucket. Courtesy of Taco Bell.”