How a Bag of Cheetos Ruined My Day and the Thing That Made it Better
It started out as a reasonably normal day, except the guy I liked hadn’t texted me in a few days and I was slightly perturbed. But I got up, got dressed, went to work, putzed around until lunch, then microwaved my Amy’s frozen black bean enchilada, like any other day.
My friend had brought Cheetos with his lunch – but just one of those teeny tiny bags that come in a variety 12-pack. He offered me some, and although I could have easily dumped the entire pouch into my mouth, I sampled only four because, you know, manners. Okay, five if you count that one little round nugget that can’t really qualify as a full Cheeto.
While I was sitting at my desk after lunch, I quickly realized that my enchilada simply wasn’t cutting it. And the four-and-a-quarter Cheetos were just a cruel tease. I wanted more. I plucked a dollar from my wallet and made a beeline to the vending machine on our floor. I examined the offerings, but they had only Flamin’ Hot Cheetos.
Flamin’ Hot? Why would I want Flamin’ Hot Cheetos, for fuck’s sake? How am I expected to enjoy the artificial cheese-flavored chemical dust when it’s obscured by artificial flamin’-hot-flavored chemical dust? God! The next closest option was Nacho Cheese Doritos, but I was not looking for a corn chip, assholes! I wanted a tiny orange turd made of mystery meal!
Annoyed but undeterred, I took a field trip to the second floor to see if their vending machine selections weren’t as ridiculously stupid. Much to my dismay, it had the same shit. I could feel my ears getting hot.
I took a deep yoga breath, then went downstairs to the little store that sold office supplies and snacks. And do you know what they had in the chip department? Popchips. POPCHIPS! The fuck am I expected to do with a motherfucking POPCHIP?! I marched straight to the counter and demanded to know why they didn’t carry Cheetos. And the furry, beanied hipster at the counter said he didn’t know. I told him he’d be hearing from my lawyer and stormed out.
I had one final option. There was another little store in the building that carried snacks. Please, Jesus or Allah or Beyonce or whoever the fuck might possibly be listening, just give me this one little thing to make my journey worth all this trauma to my psyche. I ran in and ransacked their vast chip selection. Kettle Chips, Lay’s, more Doritos, Sun Chips, Popcorners… AND. NO. FUCKING. CHEETOS.
Trying like hell to hold back my rage, I asked the cashier if there was any possibility that they might have any Cheetos, in the back maybe? AND DO YOU KNOW WHAT THE CUNT SAID?
“We have Baked Cheetos.”
AAAAAAAGGGGHHHHHHHHHH!!!! It was obvious these people needed to be taught a lesson, and I guess I was the one to have to do it. I swiped all seven bags of these “Baked Cheetos,” ripped them to shreds, threw the crumbs in the cashier’s face and lit the entire chip rack on fire.
“THAT IS WHAT I THINK OF YOUR GODDAMNED BAKED CHEETOS!” I screamed.
I ran to the elevator, sobbing, and pushed the button to my floor. Defeated, I sauntered back to vending machine number one, fed it a dollar bill and pushed E2 – Nacho Cheese Doritos. A meager substitute, but clearly the Universe wanted me to suffer. I watched the metal coils unfurl the shiny red bag and it fell to the bottom, just as I had.
Still bawling to the point of hyperventilation, I rushed past my co-workers and slammed the door to my office. I placed the putrid triangle onto my tongue and chomped away through tears. I regarded my fingers, which were shrouded in orange soot, but it just wasn’t the same and I knew it.
Suddenly, a text came through. Probably the Grim Reaper, informing me it was my time. But it wasn’t. It was the guy whose text I’d been awaiting.
“Hey :),” it said.
And in an instant, that glorious Dorito was the best chip I’d ever tasted, and all was right with the world.