So I had this creative writing project for one of my English classes. I wanted to share it because it's super funny!
"My First Time"
My friends had warned me, but my mind refused to believe the truth. And let me tell you, the truth seriously hurt. “When will this suffering end?” I thought to myself. My stomach was churning like a washing machine. I came, I saw and I felt like I was on the brink of death. At that exact moment, I realized I had learned two things: never to go to Taco Bell again, and never to eat the nachos bellgrande, the cheesy fiesta potatoes and the caramel apple empanada all in one sitting.
Oh, how naïve I had been on that oh-so-tempting Taco Tuesday. I should have just listened to my friends! They begged and pleaded for me to come back when I pulled out of our driveway on my bright blue 2012 Trek mountain bike. Our screaming match went something like this:
“Don’t do this Andrew! You don’t understand the risks and you don’t know what’s going to happen after the digestion process begins!”
“I want to try it. I’ve never had it before!” my 17-year-old self yelled.
I could tell they were furious with me. One of them, a prissy blonde girl named Tara, reached for my arm to stop me, scratching me with her pink acrylic nails in the process. I screamed, “Damn you! Now I’m going to Taco Bell and there’s nothing you can do to stop me!”
I remember the tears beginning to stream down her face, but it was too late now to say sorry. And so, I peddled on. I needed this first time to be special.
Now, the greater half of my memory won’t allow me to recall this, but I can at least remember a small portion of my demise. For me now, it’s a cloudy haze. I was trembling. My hands were shaking. The brown and gray tiles. The Barry White track, “Can’t Get Enough Of Your Love, Babe” emanating from the speaker above me. This is why I hate Taco Bell now. I can remember the feeling of a thousand baby spiders crawling around the lining of my stomach. I felt a baby horse trotting around my large intestine (whoever says it isn’t horse meat is lying to you). I know now that I was holding on for dear life, cursing Gaylord for poisoning me.
Gaylord looked nice. The black polo. The black dress pants. The signature Taco Bell hat. He looked like a superhero. Super “Cure Extreme Hunger” Man. He looked like the kind of man that helped a struggling high school student without a car as well as give away a lifetime supply of chalupas for free just because he could. His nametag gave him a sense of trustworthiness and credibility. His pearly white, gap-tooth smile made you want to order the extra large combo meal. I remember the front door’s ding-ding when I ran inside. I remember the family of four in front of me on line, the little blond girl begging her mother for a quarter to play the Taco Bell coin game. I remember the disappointment when she lost along with the wicked pleasure I got out of it. “She doesn’t deserve the free taco,” I thought to myself.
Returning, ever so slowly, back to Earth, I recall Vivaldi’s “Four Seasons” playing. I felt like I was in the bathroom from autumn to spring. Looking back, I can now compare a Shakespearian quote to my experience in that Taco Bell lavatory. It’s, “If music be the food of love.” “Four Seasons” was not making me love the cheesy potatoes. That’s a load of crap. No pun intended.
“How can I help you today sir,” said Gaylord, smiling with those taunting pearly whites. “Hey! Yea, just give me a second. I need to look,” I replied hastily. There was the soft taco but the chicken quesadilla looked more appetizing. “How’s the double decker taco supreme?” I asked Gaylord. “Well I’m a vegetarian so I couldn’t really tell you,” he said laughing. Why would one work at Taco Bell if one were a vegetarian? “Damn hipsters,” I thought. I couldn’t decide, so I got it all. “I’ll take the nachos bellgrande and the cheesy potatoes please.” I said. “And do you want the caramel apple empanada as well?” he asked, smirking. How could he do this to me? I remember feeling myself start to perspire. I remember hearing the four ding-dings from the tiny bell go off by the front door, signifying the giant line behind me. At that moment, I realized Gaylord was no superhero. He was a villain.
My memory of Taco Bell is not a fond one. I stepped out of that bathroom feeling like a soldier returning from war. As I got back on my bike, I felt a weight lift off my shoulders. I peddled in the direction of my house, scared to hear Tara’s lament due to my critical condition. I decided to call her beforehand to prepare her for the worst. “Hey Tara, it’s me. You were right and I was wrong. I shouldn’t have got Taco Bell. I’m sick to my stomach,” I complained, feeling my stomach start to hurt once more as I continued to peddle. “I told you but you never listen to me. I told you I’m always right,” she said. “Whatever. I’ll be home in 10 minutes.” I replied annoyed. “Wait!” she interrupted. “Did you get me anything from Taco Bell?”
Going through such a traumatic experience changes you as a person. It completely restructures your soul. My first Taco Bell experience changed my view on fast food for the rest of my life. Now, three years later, I’ve yet to return to a Taco Bell or anywhere in the fast food world for that matter. I can still feel the fire sauce coating my esophagus as it slid down my throat, the burn of the distilled vinegar and artificial ingredients. I truly hope that sharing this experience prevents the pain I went through, emotionally and physically, for other curious foodies. Don’t leave the apartment you haven’t left in three days to get that soft taco. Thinking about Taco Bell is a fantasy. Eating it is a nightmare. Taco Bell is taco hell.
