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