Self Portrait of Cheesy Gordita Crunch

You’re always happy to see me, when I’m passed through the window, and I feel warm in your lap. You boys, born in the year 1989 and onwards, whisper shit so sweet to me when you unwrap me from my wrapper, squeeze Fire Sauce on my lettuce, bite through my soft tortilla and into my cheesy layer, where you crunch through my hard shell, and I burst with wetness… But once you take your last bite, why you gotta bury my sagging crumbs and wrappings, in the can, out on the curb, beneath Sunday’s paper?