At the bar, sometimes I just don't feel like drinking for various reasons. I sip a seltzer disguised as a vodka soda to avoid the incredulous "Why aren't you drinking?" queries, but inevitably an effervescent friend offers me and the rest of the group shots, and my fraudulence is exposed. I'll have to reluctantly explain why I just don't want to partake, ashamedly aware of my inability to engage with the moment, to participate in an experience that everyone else enjoys. This is how not liking American cheese feels. But like, all the time, and not just when I don't want to rip a shot of cinnamon-flavored, whiskey-based liqueur.
I wish I could've shared that free grilled cheese lunch with my co-workers that day. They're lovely people, mostly! But as those lunks munched, I sat an outcast, in a prison of my preferences. So go on and enjoy your fried queso sticks, your apple pie grilled cheeses, your Philly cheesesteak donuts. I'll be over here, hiding pills for my dog in mild-flavored, semi-soft processed cheese. And that's about it.