When I was a wee little human bean, my mom would often take me, my little brothers, and my cousin Kylie to get bean burritos from the Taco Bell. We wouldn't eat them right away, though. We'd cruise over to the local park, take our bell-clad brown paper bags up to the "rocketship" and eat the beany-tortilla-cheesiness together. After which, we'd spend an hour or two playing on the grounds, pretending the woodchips were lava and that one of us was a monster trying to trap the rest.
That was a long, long time ago. The only times I've eaten Taco Bell since those little-kid years was a Chalupa Supreme once in the university food court when I was a freshman, and then while filming a zombie movie with my brothers. I think some snooty judgement demon subtly convinced me it was gross or childish.
But yesterday, man. Something got into me. I don't know where the nostalgia descended from, but at 8:15 at night I got this mad craving for taco-burrito-ness. The drive-thru was otherwise empty and the grand total after tax was $3.12. Delicious. Cheap. Simple. Fatty. Tastes like the highest height of a playground before summer play.
And I loved it.
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