I don’t really understand it but when I’m stressed, I just want to eat somethin’ orange. Not "an orange", not something good, orange, like the fruit or the juice, but something, crazy bad orange, like that layer of fat that settles on top of spaghetti sauce when it’s cold. (Okay, that was gross but you git the picture.) I want fat, salty, greasy, orange. I want artificial, day glow, finger stainin’ orange. “The cheese that goes crunch” orange; I want Cheetos, the great pacifier.
Back before I was “re-purposed”, I did indeed create an ode to my Cheeto fixation right there on the wall of my state issued cubical. I pinned every empty bag of Cheetos I ate just where you could see’um prior to enterin’ with some ridiculous paper chase request that meant less than nothing in the great scheme of things as they related to my world.
It was a stressful time of year and I just needed all who entered to see the measure of my madness; the vending machine size, the 100 calorie size, the 99 cent special bag, and then there was the hellova day Family Size bag I’d brought in at 7:00 a.m and emptied by 2:00. They were all there, fallen soldiers, carefully arranged pinned like cellophane voo-doo dolls to my “wall”. By the end of the week my right hand was hopelessly stained by the constant application of yellow dye numbers 3,5, and 8; whey flour and at least 27 additional chemicals used to insure freshness. My tongue and teeth fared no better, my sweaters too were peppered with the remains of the day, a testimony to leaving no crumb behind.
I used to say that Cheetos drowned out the voices in my head,but it went deeper than that; much deeper. I have my own theories, but it’s time for Buck's lunch and I’m thinkin about cheese, hot, greasy, and pressed hard in a fryin’ pan, you know the devil by name and he is Cheese...Grilled Cheese.
(I promise you more about cheese later, cause I want to write about Minna Cheese)
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