It's three in the AM and the one candle still aglow in this old steel trap is the impassioned craving for tacos. Tacos of the meat variety specifically but almost any taco would do at this juncture. Red ones, blue ones, two tacos, three tacos. I am willing to negotiate, as long as the outcome is the satisfying crunch and the shattered shell of that unnamed, glorious Mexican dish. You cannot appreciate this feeling or you, too, would be busy telling anyone within earshot: "Quickly, feed me!"
A painter has his canvas, a sculter his chisel and large rock. Myself? I have but my teeth and two hands with which to lay waste to all foodstuffs in my vincinity. Nothing is safe within my reach, one that well exceeds three feet in circumference. Perhaps you'd like a second to comprehend this or perhaps you'd like a second to order another helping of tacos and nachos. Both options are available and both appeal to me greatly, although the outcome with tacos is desired greater still.
I've grown terribly dissatisfied with my current standing in life. Where's the head rush highs, the knee buckling lows, the green delicious quacamole in a small plastic cup on the side? All these things and more I seem to be missing in my life, currently one noticably devoid of cheap ground chuck cooked on a filthy backroom griddle. The requirements are thus: tacos, and more tacos!
Fill my hearty gut, make light these final days of man.