This Has Been My Cinco de Mayo
A hypothetical: You see those ads for the Dorito chalupa or the burger, chicken finger, onion ring, and curly fry midnight combo and you think they look like a teenage stoner’s vomit-inducing wet dream. Who would eat that? What sort of creature would find comfort in having their stomach so full of food baby they feel like they are about to give birth to the zit-faced Antichrist?
You have no sympathy for these lost souls. Then, one night, you are handed a neon yellow mystery drink in a club. By itself, this is no big deal. Combine it with the two whiskey and cokes, the sickly sweet Cinco de Mayo margarita, the two Coronas, and the vodka and soda from earlier in the evening and you might just change your tune.
Well here we are: it is one thirty in the morning, you have just gotten home from the frenzy of the dance club, and you are regretting filling your stomach with a measly solo second hand taco that an overstuffed friend gifted you before the drinks went down the gullet.
Never fear, there’s always a food app. In this day and age, it is so easy to whip out your phone, take a gander at some food porn, point and click and wait. I mean, they already have your card on file so your drunk ass doesn’t even have to type out numbers on the tiny screen.
But here’s the dilemma: do you give up on your meal plan? You have been working hard for the physique you currently sport. Okay, said physique isn’t that great — it’s a start on the long road toward bodily sexiness, but it’s something. You can fight the urge to turn a pile of seasoned french fries into your own personal salty starch orgy or you can give up and give in.
You know in the morning you will regret it. You know in the morning you will wake up with acid reflux and a monster hangover. One or the other does not feel quite so monumental, but once you combine them, getting out of bed turns into something more akin to trekking through the Himalayas sans tour guide. You’re going to need one of those big fluffy dogs with the flask strapped to its collar just to get from the bed to the toilet.
The morning seems like it will never come though. All you know is the hunger. You let the hunger win. You pounce on the burger like it is a gazelle and you are a majestic, motor function-disabled lion. You feed, you laugh, you cry, you sleep.
And then, screw morning.
A confession: This has not been a hypothetical. This has been my Cinco de Mayo.
