Fajita Envy.

So, we've been eating out way.too.much.

As in we usually go once a week, and we're breaching the precipice of every other day.

And I have the full Rubenesque lusciousness to prove it - and I don't mean mah har - along with the empty wallet to prove it further, lest there be doubt.


But let me tell you, I envy a girl - or guy - who can eat fajitas. They're a bit cliche, to me really, I'm more of an enchilada aficionado (and I have the full Rubenesque lusciousness to prove it). Still, I live in the great Lone Star State, surrounded by Tex Mex restaurants with inviting patios and mosquito sized hostesses, with giant sizzling platters of meat, and all the other fajita
thing-y's that make up the reasons why I can't eat fajitas, and it smells so good. I want that. Right now.

There is not enough Spray and Wash/Blue Dawn/Fels Naphtha soap in this here universe to get out what lands on my clothes. My shirt, yes, but also the lap of my pants, and occasionally my shoes, end up with spots of sour cream, globs of guacamole, and shreds of cheese artfully arranged despite my best efforts to not let them get on there. Salsa? - usually reserved for my hair.

And that's all there is to the story. I am jealous. Covetous. Spitefully envious of the those in the world who can eat the stuffed folded over white nutritionally void flour tortilla and not have the filling shoot out the other end onto themselves.

And that's all I have to say about that. Peace out.