I looked at the package. Held it up to the ceiling light. Twisted the top, crumpled the edges, folded it at the corners. An ugly shade of maroon and lemon yellow, the bag of Hot Cheetos didn’t look appealing at all. Sighing, I knew what lay inside: an addictive pile of unhealthy junk that I shouldn’t touch in the first place. But I ignored logic. With the slightest of force, I spread the aluminum-polypropylene apart, starting with a quarter of an inch in the middle and slowly expanding the area of damage. A smooth slide, and the bag is now completely open. The tang of capsaicin chemicals hit me. Unnatural, artificial. Peering in, dozens of deformed sticks stared back at my eyes, its bright red shade uglier than the former maroon. Straight and clumpy, bent and clumpy, balled up and clumpy.
I gently picked a long, thin piece and examined it between my index and thumb. The bloody powder came off onto my hands like beach sand on feet. Hesitating, I popped it in my mouth. Crunch. Sludges of cheese and spice immediately stuck in the bumps of my molars, and my tongue became encapsulated in a layer of mediocre stimulation and synthetic seasoning. Neurotransmitters pierced my gustatory cells, and they snuggle in the depth of ions and chemicals. The insides of my cheeks numbed out just a bit so that I didn’t feel every bump of mucous skin as I ran my tongue along my teeth, my gums.
I swallowed, then took another piece. Then another. Then another. My two fingers turned a horrifying color as my knuckles grew a slight red as well. Big piece, small piece; lanky piece, stumpy piece; powdery piece, bare piece. Statistically, the pieces grew smaller, the Brazil nut effect, and my mouth watered dry. It was too much. Not the Scovilles, but a creeping sense of conscience that murmured at me to stop cutting down my lifespan second by second, minute by minute. Pause, save the rest for another day. But I take yet another. Save, I commanded myself. No, I replied back, a compelling urge to continue. My amygdala begged, beseeched me to put the goddamn bag down. It was a sign of the evil, the red, reminiscent of Satan and his habits of devouring the souls.As I picked out a ball, eighth of an inch by a quarter of an inch in size, I looked down, just slightly depressed. Cherishing the tiny crunch for the last time, I licked the top of my index finger, then my thumb, savoring the last of the salty powder mixed in with the dusty microbes of my hands—utterly disgusting yet delicious, simultaneously. The tips of the two digits glistened in a wondrous sight of saliva and grime, and after brief hesitation, I took them and forcefully swabbed them down my white shirt, leaving a rosy stain two inches tall. Now, it was time. I shook the ugly and colorful bag up and down, left and right. I put it back on the table and straightened it out, folding out the wrinkles with firm swipes of my palm. Once ironed flat, I lifted it back up, this time above my head, and hold it up like Simba. Nants ingonyama. With a stiff motion, I tossed the remaining crumbles into my open mouth in a 45-degree slide. Munch, grind, pulverized into muck. Every morsel forcefully squeezed through my throat or onto my teeth. And the bag was empty.