I was sitting on a bench and began thinking of tacos, and I started shaking. T-a-a-c-c-c-o-o-o-o-s-s-s-s-s I thought. Oh god those tasty little bastards! I wasn't thinking of the crispy variety with ground beef, lettuce and shredded cheddar cheese, but rather the Mexican kind, with one or two small flour tortillas, various spiced meats, some onion and cilantro, and some fresh salsas. Oh god I was convulsing not with the flavors themselves, but with the ideas of the flavors. I ran through the streets shaking with anticipatory ecstasy. I ran up to one woman and started grabbing her and rubbing myself against her, screaming of the tacos. "Get away from me you creep!" she screamed. I hurriedly explained that I was having a taco seizure, and she apologized for her harsh words and pointed me in the direction of East 116th Street. First I went to Taco Mix, which has to be one of the best taco parlors in Manhattan. A chorizo and al pastor taco, I had. The chorizo was rich and complex, and the pastor was succulent and groan-inducing. Groan. I doused my tacos in a creme guacamole sauce and a vibrant pepper sauce, the color of sex orange. "Oh jesus!" I screamed as I inhaled my tacos. Next it was on to El Aguila, for my taco lust had not been sated. I ordered another chorizo and al pastor pairing, and although nothing to scoff at, the tacos were not of the same caliber as those of Taco Mix. When I was finished I returned to my bench and continued shaking and spasming.
The End.
