I told them I wanted to eat Mexican food until my stomach hurt.
My family sees this disorder often. I order platters of food, XXX hot, and then I tip upside down the little bottles of hot sauce.
I drink mezcal margaritas. My nose runs. My face sweats. The skin across my iron six-pack stretches and fissures from the internal pressure. My belt breaks. Inside, I scorch my esophagus and blister my stomach and duodenum. Doctors gather, lawyers circle. I keep eating. My platters turn to empty, shining porcelain. I limp to the car, moaning, but still conscious, sated.
Tonight, they serve the extra hot sauce in a ramekin. I finish it with my appetizer, and I ask for a bigger container, "maybe a bowl this time :) ". I ultimately pour two more bowls of their hot sauce onto my empanadas and tacos. I eat three bowls of their salsa. I picture all the little pepper molecules beating up on the abundant lactic acid and free radicals coursing through my muscles after my day of 100 miles of velo abuse.
Arturo The Waiter is laughing at me.
I am a fire risk. I am incendiary. If I walk into the grassy highlands of October's Napa County, I will spontaneously ignite the grasslands and cremate your favorite Californian vineyards.
My family sees this disorder often. I order platters of food, XXX hot, and then I tip upside down the little bottles of hot sauce.
I drink mezcal margaritas. My nose runs. My face sweats. The skin across my iron six-pack stretches and fissures from the internal pressure. My belt breaks. Inside, I scorch my esophagus and blister my stomach and duodenum. Doctors gather, lawyers circle. I keep eating. My platters turn to empty, shining porcelain. I limp to the car, moaning, but still conscious, sated.
Tonight, they serve the extra hot sauce in a ramekin. I finish it with my appetizer, and I ask for a bigger container, "maybe a bowl this time :) ". I ultimately pour two more bowls of their hot sauce onto my empanadas and tacos. I eat three bowls of their salsa. I picture all the little pepper molecules beating up on the abundant lactic acid and free radicals coursing through my muscles after my day of 100 miles of velo abuse.
Arturo The Waiter is laughing at me.
I am a fire risk. I am incendiary. If I walk into the grassy highlands of October's Napa County, I will spontaneously ignite the grasslands and cremate your favorite Californian vineyards.
Tonight I limp across the street to my room at the Calistoga Inn, still conscious, sated. Oh, I just can't wait to get to Texas!
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