Dear Diary: Doritos and me

Dear Diary,

The sun beats down like a lazy lover this afternoon. The heat is sticking to my skin like a secret I don't mind sharing. Just us, Diary—no judgments, no echoes from the edges.

A bag of Doritos crinkles open on my lap, the first in nearly ten years. I can’t remember why I had to discard them. Ah yes, I think because they were a bit expensive. Everything is expensive here where I live.

But today I could get my hands on a Doritos bag. I tasted one and...

Oh God, fuck!

Ah, fuck!

AH YEAH!

The crunch hits me like a spark I forgot I craved. Salt and spice explode on my tongue, sharp and unapologetic. My fingers orange-stained and greedy as I suck them. I pop one after another, the heat building slow, that cheesy tang curling in my gut like a grin I can't hide. I know this sounds gross, but this is how I feel after almost long ten years of abstinence.

I almost orgasmed from the sheer joy of eating Doritos, Diary—legs spread lazy on the chair, sweat beading, just me devouring in a frenzy what tastes like rebellion. Who cares if it's not "good" for me? This is mine, this guilty-no-more pleasure, far from the poison that once soured every flavour.

Tomorrow, another bag—hell, maybe two. For now, the last crumbs linger on my lips, a whisper of more to come. I can still taste the cheesy flavour on the back of my mouth.

Simple, stupid, sublime pleasure.

El Jaquio