Dear self,
Why did you bite into the buttery crunch of deliciousness that is avocado toast?
You wanted to know what all the fuss was about.
You took a bite and transformed.
The crisp, toasted layer of the Trader Joe’s whole wheat bread, caressed by the dewy creamed avocado. You felt tingly.
Now the meal bombards your brain.
When you wake up: “Avocado toast…”
When you get dressed: “Avocado toast…”
When you cry in the corner of the linen closet as your student loans crush you into the deep corridor of despair: “Avocado toast…”
Going a day without avocado toast is a big avaca-don’t.
You dream avocado toast.
Every night, you’re running through a cloud of avocado fields.
You’re singing with the little woodland avocados.
You’re eating a hoard of avocado toasts when...
You wake up.
Pillow in mouth, you muffle a groan.
It’s midnight, and it’s time for avocado toast.
Craning your neck into the refrigerator, your face contorts in horror.
Dear God.
You’re out of avocado toast.
Your hands shake.
Your lips quiver.
Your eyes twitch and you convulse on the floor.
You’re stuck, whimpering on the cold kitchen floor.
The dog next door howls.
What have you become?
You shrink into yourself.
Your brain is toast.
Avocado toast.
The morning creeps up on you, and you hiss at the intruding sun.
You scramble underneath the table.
Your bones turn brittle.
And your skin mimics a shade of Shrek.
Your limbs become crunchy and crumbly.
The world towers around you as you shrink to the ground.
You no longer feel.
You no longer see.
You only are.
Avocado toast.
