Okay, broken tortilla chips at the bottom of the bag. I’m calling you out. YOU are what’s wrong with civilization. You sit there, all disingenuous, pretending to be cute little juvenile chips. “Oh, baby chips, how adorable and undoubtedly tasty,” we’re supposed to proclaim.
I don’t buy it, broken chips. You’re impostors. You’re not cute or tiny or in other ways deserving of the affection we give tiny mammal creatures, with their floppy heads and ridiculous mewling “et la” fencing cries, “hilp hilp hilp” guliping swallows, big eyes and delicious ears and milk-smelling breath.
No, chips. You are not cute and you are not babies. You are detritus. You are the trash that ought be thrown into a witheringly hot tortilla soup, or reserved for some lame casserole dish that demands crushed chips, not for grownup tasks like scooping salsa or taking the edge off my gnawing disillusionment and anger.
I try not to just throw you in the compost, though that is the fate you deserve. No, I make an effort, you chip-goodwill welfare recipients. I try to select you individually, little crumbled useless shard of corn and salt, to get just a hint of salsa on my palate. Tiny flake after tiny flake, I waste precious time and compulsive eating impulses just to make it seem as though I am responsible with the chip dust that I, in all likelihood, caused to break away from the bigger pieces. I have chip breaker’s guilt, and so I try to eat those lame shards.
But then my rage controls me. I might run out of binge energy at this rate, long before I’m overfull and long before the shards are gone. I don’t want to go through this again next season when I have random chip urges again. Get out of my way, chip gravel!
So I shovel pinches full of the little bastards into my gaping maw. No way to dip them, so now it’s just dry, salty tortilla shrapnel. Unsatisfying.
Finally, I look into the bag. The broken bits of chip, like my life, used to hold promise and endless possibilities. And now they are the uncomfortably dessicated flotsam and jetsam of poor choices (like bagging the chips next to the gallon of milk) lying on the shores of a vast ocean of now impossible possibilities.
So I throw the nigh on empty bag of crumbs back into the cupboard, so they can taunt me and torment me and mock me and drive me into an existential spiral in a few months. Oh, they’ll be there. Because it’s not as though anyone else will eat those little bastards in the meantime.