Another few decimals of girth have been added to my poor body. These zesty nacho chips can’t remain silent for long against my impending and all-consuming wrath. I know how these foul triangles are brought into existence and how many pounds of genetically-enhanced animal lard and residual vegetable excrements are required to give them the firm, crisp, greasy layer of existence that we feverously interact with. If you listen carefully after every bite, you can hear the molecules of fat rattle through your arteries like musket shot, caring little for the business of the native blood cells in front of them but hurdling deeper into your body as if they were running in mass panic from a never-ending Richard Simmons video. Each bite takes you farther from that image of physical perfection that only social cum canisters married to a ludicrously rich CEO of some marketing agency can afford to judge themselves by. Meanwhile, everyone else attempting to convince themselves they are the epitome of that lifestyle resembles a cheap plastic toy knock-off character of a more popular kid-friendly demographic advertising campaign that you buy in a gum machine dispenser at a smoky diner whose wallpaper patterns could be replaced with repeated bloody streaks spelling out “Put an end to my eternal misery” and you wouldn’t be able to tell the difference. But not me. These nachos are my lifeblood.