The Taco Massacre of 2014

This is a story all about how my tacos got flipped turned upside down. (I'm sorry, I couldn't resist.)

As stated before I'm not a big fan of... emotions and that kind of gooey stuff. But whenever I'm stressed out I get super emotional, clumsy and confused. The past five years or so have been quite messy due to various reasons and I had periods where I'd get extremely irritated - especially  during exam season - especially especially during winter exam seasons. I just can't stand all that darkness and freezing. I'm a flower, I needs mah sun.

There were two winter exam seasons that were particularly bad for another reason I won't talk about (lol, this like a FBI record). One of those took place in 2014 (actually, I'm not sure about that, but let's just say it was 2014). As I said, I was very clumsy and my head was filled with all that fuzz that kinda made it hard to think straight, which is why I usually focus all my energy towards my exams and just completely abandon my social life. On one more relaxed afternoon I wanted to make myself some leftover tacos and enjoy 'em in front of the TV like a true 'Murrican. Three tacos died that day.

In Germany, we don't have that broad of a range when it comes to Mexican food, so I bought those hard-shell corn tacos. On my first attempt, I put the shell in the oven to heat it up a bit and make it softer. I've done that before and thought I knew the drill. Problem was: I only put one taco shell in the oven on top of a baking sheet. And because I couldn't think properly I turned on the oven ventilator thingy (no idea what that's called in English, do let me know). Three minutes went by, I take a look inside the oven and my taco stuck to the very back of it, utterly burned. See, the ventilator thingy sent the baking sheet flying and since one taco shell on its own doesn't weigh much it slided right off and died a horrible slow death.

Second time around I thought I would be smarter about this and put the shell in the microwave. Thing is, my mom had just bought that microwave and instead of a little screen that allowed you to type in the time it has a rotary dial which makes it very hard to set any time under 5 minutes. Doesn't matter, I thought, I'll just stop it in a minute. I didn't of course, because I had completely forgotten about it as soon as I left the kitchen to get my phone. About five minutes later it smells hecka burned. I open the microwave and our kitchen immediately fills with smoke. Needless to say the shell was lost to the fire gods.

Right, at this point I was getting really moody and close to tears tbh because of all those stupid emotions I usually store inside a closet and because I care deeply about tacos. I didn't want to risk ruining another shell and therefore decided to skip heating it up. With shaking hands I filled the last remaining shell and succeded without any accidents. I filled up a glass of water and just as I reach for my taco I knock the plate; taco and all straight off the kitchen counter. My last shell. Dead on the floor, its insides spread out and hot sauce staining the tiles. I was close to a breakdown.

There's no happy end to this story, I'm afraid. I ended up eating bread. Bread! When I could have had three delicious tacos. I was devastated. And to this day, every late autumn (I really can't remember the day, I hardly remember the year) I pay tribute to the dreadful Taco Massacre and its victims by having a delicious taco.

Anyways, there's a funny 'lil 'anecdote' for you. Go ahead, laugh at me, you know you want to.

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