Taco Time



You are cake’s constant speculation. (Fight Club)


8:00PM: “Here, try this space cake. It will totally chill you out.”

8:05PM: I eat one piece. Nothing happens.

8:45PM: I eat a bigger piece. Still nothing.

9:55PM: I’m in the same spot, trying to invent a new way to tie shoes that will rock the entire universe. I am wearing flip-flops.

10:14PM: I’m high-fiving a guy in a parking lot who says he is “half-bear, half-Golden Girl.” I tell him he was born this way.

11:05PM: I’m in a corner booth with a half-rack of ribs and a pack of howling strangers. Space cake makes me funny.

12:20AM: I’m bumming a smoke off a hot dog vendor, explaining how I finally quit smoking like five years ago and he can, too.

1:01AM: I’m in an underground bar in a photobooth, taking photos with my best friend, Cheetos.

1:15AM: I’m sharing Game of Thrones conspiracy theories outside with a guy in a taco costume. I ask if it’s Halloween because I can’t remember my face. He claims it’s July but what the fuck do tacos know about time?

1:47AM: I’m standing in a 7-11, looking for answers to life in the freezer. I find Chocolate Peanut Butter Haagen-Daas ice cream instead. Life questions: answered.

2:30AM: I’m making pasta in my kitchen and attempting Beyonce’s “Single Ladies” dance. The apartment manager calls and says the neighbors have complained, so I open the front door and yell something totally fierce into the hallway.

3:07AM: I’m pulling out all the fancy salt to re-organize them alphabetically — or maybe autobiographically, like John Cusack in High Fidelity where he bangs Khal Drogo’s real-life wife.

5:00AM: A bird is talking mad shit about me to other birds outside.

The next afternoon, I wake up to a text from my space cake friend.

How was the rest of your evening?

I take inventory.

I’m half-naked on the couch, pants nowhere to be found. I’m covered in lipstick, BBQ sauce, cigarette ash, Cheeto powder, ice cream, pasta bits, and Himalayan salt. All the lights are on and the TV is blaring. I’m pretty sure the front door is open.

On the coffee table is a drawing in permanent marker of a Slytherin-Targaryen family crest with “TATTOO???” written next to it.

It’s not my worst idea ever.

Awesome, I text back. Let’s do it again soon.

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3 thoughts on “Taco Time

  1. […] on in life, Travis probably comes out of the closet, poor Nancy joins a cult, and Rhonda becomes your favorite stoner friend who gets you discounts at the yoga […]


  2. […] Shall I compare thee to a summer cake? […]


  3. […] is worth making for a special day or a cathartic cake occasion (but not as a space cake). Use the good chocolate – the one I call Sharffenblarfer – and follow directions and […]


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