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Interior monologue of a neurotic on a trip to T-Bell

How was my experience, you ask? That is not a simple question, Taco Bell, and I feel it a bit insulting that you seem to feel that it should be placed so obscurely among your overall signage. Your “New Cookie Sandwich” (sidenote: are you even paying lip service to the nation of Mexico anymore?) is apparently worthy of front and center placement, but a query concerning my entire life-world, my essence, my very soul, is deemed mere marginalia. This complaint aside, Taco Bell, my experience with you was…acceptable. Considering I paid $8.59�"over an hour of my precious youth, sacrificed�"it damn well should have been. I arrived at one of your Virginia Beach locales around 5:20 PM, the eighth of January. I know well that with my marginal employment I cannot afford to eat out, ever, but oh, Taco Bell, I cannot say no to your complex interplay of flavors, when my dinner at home will consist of one thing of Walgreens brand instant oatmeal and a couple of apples starting to go bad.

Pulling into the drive-through, to minimize human contact and therefore shame, I feel the familiar gnawing of my conscience, castigating me for throwing away money that I just don’t have. This is a familiar morality play put on by my Id and Superego, a farce that plays itself out with the same conclusion every time: the triumph of the Id, followed by momentary animal pleasure, followed by hours of self-recrimination. My ego is used to it by now and merely spectates; the play only exists to maintain the tired illusion of free will the ego needs to justify its very existence.

“Hello and welcome to Taco Bell” jars me out of my subconscious. It is a woman’s voice. A young woman. Her fake enthusiasm is almost infectious�"even through such a dubious medium as drive through intercom�"but I shake it off. Believing that this is real human feeling would be akin to believing that the Crunchwrap Supreme is an authentic Mexican dish. I’m nervous now. I should have worked this out beforehand. It’s been like five seconds and I still haven’t ordered. That’s almost ten seconds. She must hate me already. “Uh…I’ll have the seven layer burrito, black bean burrito, and a potato soft taco” “Alright, that’ll be 8.59. Just drive through to the second window.” S**t! 8.59? I can’t f*****g afford that. And the seven layer burrito, it looks like it has f*****g meat in it. I can’t even eat that. You’re wasting ten dollars you pathetic piece of s**t. God I hate you so much. What the f**k, man?

I force myself through the panic. Okay, I fucked it up again. That’s fine. That isn’t your fault, Taco Bell; I didn’t mean to blame you. It’s too late to change my order now; really it’s been too late from the start. They might be momentarily inconvenienced, and then they would hate me, jeer at me, curse my name till the day they die. Just calm down. Calm down, Alan. Just take what’s given you, hand over the money, and it will all be over. This was all a horrible mistake, but you’re almost through it now. In a few days, you’ll barely even remember it. Just breathe deep. At the window the girl takes my money, smiling the whole time, handing me my bag of fat and carbs: I can see the malice in that smile, see through to the contempt she has for me, putting garbage like this into my body. I can barely look her in the eyes.

I park my car to eat. The human contact part is over now, and I feel a bit more at peace. My first bite into the black bean burrito reminds me why you’re worth it Taco Bell. I will never understand the appeal of fine dining, as nothing could ever taste better than this does right now. I barely even taste the first burrito though, in the same way that the first drink used to always be down in two minutes or less, and I’m on to the fortunately meatless seven-layer, which unfortunately for both of us, Taco Bell, was my primary burrito of contention. It was not that any layers were missing; it was that they were in no way evenly distributed. My first two bites yielded naught but guacamole, rice, and sour cream, which forced me into doing the one thing one should not do when consuming Taco Bell cuisine: look at it closely. Though I did verify that all layers were present and accounted for, I possessed no tools to remedy the situation apropos of the uneven distribution of said layers. In retrospect, I should have realized this and simply continued eating, as it was quite a bit more difficult to finish such a shoddily constructed burrito once I had actually looked inside and seen what I was putting into my body.

I saved the potato soft taco for last, as I knew it would not disappoint, and it did not, giving my entire experience with you a crisp, clean finish. As the food ran out, the guilt set in once again, though that is probably more my fault than yours, Taco Bell. I knew I would come back to you. I always know that, no matter how many times I swear I won’t. You’re worth the shame and degradation, the money I don’t have. I can’t say no to you, Taco Bell, and I know you’ll never say no to me.

Until next time,

Alan