Jimboy’s is a Mexican-eque fast food restaurant chain. I say Mexican-esque because the food claims to be Mexican. The incongruity of the place is charming: people working there bark loud Span-ish (?) directions at one another through their headsets, despite how the place itself is called Jimboy’s. Jimboy’s doesn’t sound… well… Latin American in any actual way. Perhaps it’s how I am saying “Jimboy’s”, incorrectly and slightly foreign as usual, so before I dig myself into the Hole of Insensitive and Slightly Racist Misunderstanding, I am going to get right into describing my experience at Jimboy’s.

Unlike the misleading and possessed looking gif below, (do you pronounce it Gif, jif, or gjif? I personally pronounce it as: gjif) I did not only eat out of mini plastic pots of salsa. While there was a time in my life where my social anxiety meant that such pathetic quantities of liquid tomato puree would be all I could stomach, now, I am at peace with my surroundings. Now, I can stomach, well, certainly more than mere salsa!

My particular order consisted of some beany salute to my previous vegetarian convictions: a bean burrito. However, I also succumbed to some animal fleshiness in the form of a ground beef taco. I guess I must apologize to my vegetarian, animal-free dairy-free Vegan past self. How I miss you Vegan, jittery, clear-skinned me. The mountains of acne at my temples are a testament to my new, animal eating sinful ways. I wish my blood pressure was not abnormally low or I would abandon animal consumption immediately. I probably will again once the anxiety gets bad, so it’s okay. It’s only a matter of time before I succumb to my mind and it’s desire to eat like a Pure-Being-Who-Eats-No-Animal-Flesh again so I will become Vegan-Anxious-Nadia-Seeking-to-Control-One-Aspect-of-her-Life soon enough. Probably when the the hectic madness of school picks up again. If I return to that job again. *shudder*.

*violent shudder*


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In other, more and less burrito-related news, my bean and cheese burrito was wrapped in a tortilla that was fried in butter. 

Did you not already feel a shiver down your spine at “fried in butter?

To people who like bifurcations, there are always two kinds of people in the world. In this instance, it’s people who want to barf when they think of butter-fried anything, and then people who feel an invitational spine-shiver when butter is even hinted at. I know these two people exist. I have oscillated between both extremes, never inhabiting the mean, live one or the other forever. I only ever tout extremes  – why be a gray-areas-exist- hippie-person about everything, especially in this case, about butter? Wanting to barf when you think about butter means you’ll probably lose seven pounds in five months, and worshipping the butter means you’ll be padded with warmth in the winter. Apparently people exist who have no opinions, or even worse, believe in moderation, about something like butter. They aren’t my friends of course, because clearly they aren’t sticks in the mud enough and don’t want to hang out at pretentious coffee shops. Plus, butter is in all edibles to have some opinion about – butter is the stealthy ninja in all baked masterpieces, demanding acknowledgment rather than attention, a subtle creamer in your cakes, your muffins, the doughnuts, chicken, soaked movie popcorn, cronuts, tarts, croissants, cookies… soaked movie popcorn! Butter will accept hatred if not love and affection, don’t you see? Simply wipe yourself on some burnt toast already and see how it must feel to be butter. Do whatever it takes to have an opinion. Stop being opinionless, or stay worthless.

Tangents, tangents… I started talking about butter because that tortilla was slathered in it. All of this blathering was just to communicate that it was absolutely delicious. That phrase “melt in your mouth” is not just a saying, but a reality. The combination of bean+ cheese + butter-fried-tortilla and finally le mouth– all of it together becomes an equivalent to heated ice cream in its capacity to fulfill yet leave you wanting more. And that was just the burrito. In addition to the burrito, I sank my fangsies into a crunchy ground beef taco, and my tastebuds met a similarly ecstatic fate.

What is not to like? Of course, it was the Mexi-Texan food cooked by authentique Latin Americans. The typically classy fast-food ambience was enhanced by the intimate company of Robert and his Madre, although I have no idea what we talked about besides the high quality greasiness of our awe inspiring food. Mostly, I attribute my happy food experience at Jimboy’s to their delicious food, and also how I could eat a number of food products free of anxiety. It is a blessing to be able to chew without terror-locks in my jaw. I can taste food, every bud against every molecule and particle of chewed up chunk yields flavor to me. Food no longer sits in my mouth along with the flavor that accompanies thoughts of the work I have to do or even worse, the bile of my  various mistakes that day. Thank yah, Jimboy’s – for reminding me of what I’m capable of tasting, and how I’m capable of living on vacation.

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