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Top 10 Drunk Foods: A Love Letter

by Emily Rella on October 11, 2013
Junior > English > Boston College
via Flicker user nebulux76
via Flicker user nebulux76

Dear Drunk Foods,

This affair has gone on way too long. I can’t keep doing this; the guilt is overwhelming. I love you, you know I do and that’s why even though I want to, I can’t let you go.

Nothing can compare to the pure euphoria that you, cupcakes (yes, all 25 mini-sized of you), brought me that perfect Saturday night.. I may have devoured you while spooning my gay BFF in bed, crying just for the sake of crying, but the joy you’ve bestowed upon my life is incomparable. It reminds me of the innocent days of childhood, when joy was easily found and kept.

That’s when I first fell in love with you, mozzarella sticks. Our love affair has grown from playground days to 4 a.m. nights together on the couch with my roommates.

I met you back then, too, Cool Ranch Doritos. Your perfect seasoning, your addictive taste. Such pure love is hard to find these days.

That’s why I’m so amazed that I’ve found this pure love with cheesy bread, too. Hearing your name fills me with butterflies, a sense of curiosity and excitement; how much cheese will they put on you tonight? Will it be all cheddar or a mix? How much garlic for seasoning? Either way it doesn’t matter; you and I both know that you don’t need much of anything at all, you’re perfect just the way you are.

As are you, personal pizza. You don’t need pepperoni or any toppings. I often cut you in to small pieces (eighths, to be precise) just so I feel like I’m eating less of you than I really am. Besides, the more pieces I have in front of me to devour, the happier I am.

You’re a prime example of that, goldfish. All of your little pieces add up to one big serving size of happiness, and as far as I’m concerned, an entire extra large carton is the proper serving size (for happiness that is).

Happiness often comes from overcoming pain or challenges that stand in our way. That’s the way it’s always been for you and me, chicken fingers. Sometimes when I eat you too fast I can feel my chest growing heavy and my breathing temporarily delayed; some might say this is the result of the fatty oils, but I know that it’s really just the love I have for your fried, tender coating. That goes for you too, side of piping hot french fries.

However, no one has taught me to better conquer a challenge than you, mac and cheese. I shovel you down with a sense of pride and triumph. I create you to cheesy perfection each time, and though the noodles are almost always cooked a little too al dente for my sober self, drunk me loves all the crunch you bring to the table.

I feel this same pride eating you, buffalo chicken sub. It’s a challenge to finish you without burning my tongue off, but something about my intoxicated competitiveness makes eating you a challenge I gladly accept.

Alas, when the sun rises and the inebriation wears off, we must say our goodbyes.  You know I won’t forget the times we had come morning. My scale won’t either. I’ll see you again next weekend but until then, I must pretend you don’t exist. 

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