Anthony Jauregui
Jul 7, 2017 · 2 min read

Or, getting tired of your favorite food

Every Christmas I would unwrap tamales. The steam rose from the innards of the tamale; the ground corn base was now soft and gooey. The stuffing is spicy and chunks of dead meat stared at me— I stared back at the meat. The steam fogged up my glasses as I took the first bite — it burned my tongue, but I liked it.

I’m not a masochist or anything, but pain from food is tolerable, and I kinda liked it.

At least until I got tired of it.

Every Christmas for at least 20 years I went through the same sadomasochistic experience, ignoring all the cons and exploiting all the pros: a warm belly, burnt tastebuds, heartburn — all things I loved.

After I ate each Tamale, the pain associated with devouring them reminded me of the feeling of falling in love with something that didn’t love you back — like a pet rock.

A few years ago at Christmas, Tamales were made. I opened the steamer where they lived and nothing happened. All I felt was anger that my glasses were fogged up — I didn’t want them anymore. All the years that they provided a wholesome, hot feeling in my belly were eradicated — I didn’t want them anymore.

I hope that someday me and Christmas Tamales can have a conversation about what happened, but for now, I’m taking a break from them because they’re fucking disgusting.

Anthony Salvador Jauregui, 23


Half Bad Ass Half Phony

Anthony Jauregui

Written by

Welcome to a place where words matter. On Medium, smart voices and original ideas take center stage - with no ads in sight. Watch
Follow all the topics you care about, and we’ll deliver the best stories for you to your homepage and inbox. Explore
Get unlimited access to the best stories on Medium — and support writers while you’re at it. Just $5/month. Upgrade