Dear Grilled Stuft Nacho,
Where did you go, you beautiful Frankenstein-ed concoction? Was my love too much? You knew just how many toppings fit inside a wrapped pseudo-taco -- unlike that try-too-hard, stop-sign-shaped tease, the Crunchwrap Supreme -- and your cunning style put a dish of nachos to shame. You were perfect, and I fell for you the day I met you.
I thought we had something here. Something… special. Something like love. But you didn’t even bother to say goodbye. You just disappeared into the night. Now I'm left with nothing but broken dreams and a rumbling stomach. Every time I crave the salty-sweet delights of neon-orange cheese and spicy beef perfectly oozing off a chip, I’ll be left thinking of you, and how that chip would be so much better if it was wrapped up in a tortilla.
Clearly, you didn’t realize the future I had planned for us, a future full of late nights and long road trips with no fear of a cheese-covered steering wheel. A future no longer haunted by a nacholess void. I was even willing to ignore your stupid, not-a-real-word name. But, just like the Flamin' Hot Fritos-infused burrito before you, you left me. And my stomach aches with longing.
P.S. I miss you.
Liz Childers is a food/drink editorial assistant at Thrillist. She prefers her vegetables with bacon fat, her chicken fried, and her ramen with a bowl of extra chili paste. Follow her @lizchilders1.