hot sauce

Every once in a while you must step back and examine your life.

Find out what’s not working or what’s going wrong and fix it.

I recently realized I have an addiction.

A nasty one, one that won’t loosen its deadly grip on my esophagus.

I’m addicted to hot sauce and all things spicy.

It probably all started as a child, when my mother would dice up jalapenos in my morning eggs.

It soon became commonplace to see Jalapeno’s in everything (they definitely found the time to dance around in my dreams, those devilish green sprites!)

I’m surprised I didn’t keep secret jars of them under my bed; like contraband, like Playboy.

Just this morning, while actually putting more hot sauce on my breakfast burrito then ketchup, I stopped.

I have been putting Vietnamese or Mexican hot sauce on EVERY SINGLE MEAL I’ve been eating for months now!

I can’t even touch soup without creating a hazy, blood-red hot sauce cloud swirling around like a recent shark attack.

Pizza means nothing to me without slashing the side of a Tapatio bottle and watching the carnage ooze out onto the crust.

I’m sure I will eventually pay the price. My taste buds are already shot. My stomach lining is most certainly next.