Birth of the Burrito

It’s what comes of living with a pretty young witch, the kind that casts spells when she’s not working as the receptionist for the local chiropractor. She was pretty and young, and that was okay, and she had straight black hair down to her waist, and that was okay, too. She was a good cook as well, a Mexican cook named Maria. I wish her name had been more exotic, but it wasn’t. I’m sorry about that.

I came home from work one day and found her in bed with the chiropractor. That wasn’t okay. She said he was aligning her vertebrae, but here was the problem: she was lying on her back and he was begging me not to hit him with a baseball bat. I didn’t think that the professional medical corporation lying naked in my bed was up to any good, and so I kicked him out. That’s when she cast the spell.

“You’re a burrito!” she shouted. And then she made some arcane gestures. She added for good measure, “And you’re not just any burrito—you’re a nude burrito.” She then got dressed and left. I never saw her again.

Now let’s get something straight from the outset. I knew I wasn’t really a burrito, but I felt like one. I felt like wilted lettuce and a flour tortilla. Worse yet, the burrito was falling apart. I was indeed naked, albeit in a metaphysical, Mexican kind of way. Such were Maria’s powers of persuasion. From then on, people started calling me “Burrito.” I don’t know what they saw, but that’s the moniker that stuck after the chiropractic fiasco. I was pretty sure I still had arms and legs, but everyone else treated me like a burrito. A nude burrito.