Love Letters to the Beefy Nacho Griller

As a card-carrying autistic, I got the same thing at Taco Bell every time I went: the Beefy Nacho Griller. I knew that it would be burnt to shit. I knew I would complain about it being burnt to shit. It was a known evil. It was comfort. It was love. Maybe not. Maybe I have unresolved childhood trauma. Maybe I need a better therapist than I’ll consider it. Mind your business. Anyway, last time I went it was gone. GONE. What the hell? What the hell else do they even have there? Obviously I know they have other items, but again, I am autistic every day of the week and doubly so on Sundays, so I just “uhhh I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I need to go. I’m sorry”’d and got the heck out of Dodge. I think I cried actual human tears. I was distraught and devastated. I have not been back since. 

Admittedly, this was quite a while ago. I might be writing this for no reason, and I’ll wake up to a bunch of people screaming at me that it’s back and has been back for a literal year. It’ll be nice to receive some death threats. It’ll remind me that I’m alive. Please don’t doxx me though; I have a very nervous cat that doesn’t like strangers appearing at our door. I also have a very nervous me that doesn’t like strangers appearing at our door. Okay. I’m sorry to whomever had to spend time reading this. I hope you are well. Also, you look absolutely slammin’ today. Good for you, friend.

–   K. Allysson Wright, Professional Former-Beefy-Nacho-Griller-Eater, Complainer (of many hats), and Literally Nothing Else.

Oh, just kidding; I remembered another weird Taco Bell story, but this one is a touch more charming somehow. I was on my second date with my current partner a few years ago, and I just had major foot surgery because I have a disrespectful connective tissue disorder, and my rude ass bones won’t stay in their assigned seats. 

After hours of driving, pointing, storytelling, and laughing, we stopped to watch the airplanes take off closely overhead from a hidden field by the airport. We shared breaths of the sweet, sweet chemtrails, romantically losing brain cells in tandem, day-dreaming of where those planes were off to (and if there were dogs on them.) He and I laughed even more as we were unceremoniously kicked out of said field at sunset by a man who looked tired of our shit for simply existing; how delightfully absurd. We drove out to a lake in order to watch the moonlight reveal the ripples of water.

I was still wearing the cast from the aforementioned foot surgery and dumbass-edly decided to sit in the middle of the car, since the seats had been gone for what looked like years, and the car was stopped in a good spot to see the water. I also wanted to extend my tiny leggies a little bit after all the seat-contained adventuring we had done that day, and I couldn’t exactly walk it off. We were whispering back and forth, enjoying both the fresh air and the view until something caught my attention. 

Movement. Close movement. 

Rustling. Approaching rustling.

My heart rate sky-rocketed. Was I about to get got? Because, full disclosure, we did literally go down a street called “Shady Lane” to get here. Was this all a ploy to take my kidneys?? Damn my chronic inability to take hints!

Foot surgery or not, I wasn’t going down without a fight. Mama didn’t raise a quitter. In a bid to find something to potentially defend myself, most of me turned. I looked down to find that the casted part of my lower half didn’t budge when the rest of my entire body quickly swiveled because it got stopped by some-car-seat-thing. Enter: my first knee dislocation. No, not kneeCAP. My KNEE. 

At that exact same time, I found out what was causing the movement and rustling: a nosy, fat-ass cat, probably named Bubba,  tummy absolutely SWANGIN’ in the light of the moon, its fur sometimes catching it for a split second. I had just dislocated a major joint because a cat decided to not mind his own goddang business. Adorable insult to a not-so-adorable injury; I was ready to sue his little fuzzy ass for emotional damages at this point.  And what about my emotional recovery? Something tells me doesn’t have any tips on how to cope with this specific situation. 

But, far more importantly, do you know how hard it is to simultaneously be sexy and casually play off your embarrassing frantic movements as excitement to see Bubba? It’s very difficult, but somehow, I managed. Everything went down in a matter of seconds, but I was still bombarded with adrenaline, rapidly increasing pain, and paranoia-laced thoughts. I managed to mold my knee back into something that could pass as leg-shaped, if you squinted really hard. I did my world-famous “I’ll deal with this properly later” shrug, but being that I was still ON A DATE, we still needed to talk about what to do next. 

Due to my inability to keep it together, literally and figuratively, we really only had three options: 1. End the date early, and I’d go back to my boring room and be boringly disabled alone (which I already had on my calendar for the next night,) 2. Go to the ER immediately to make sure I hadn’t permanently damaged one of my most important joints forever and ever (Amen) or 3. Go to Taco Bell and pop a PRESCRIBED (thank you very much!) pain pill.  

It was then, bent leg stabilized between my still-trembling hands, that I realized I didn’t want the night to end at all. It was then, too, I realized that talking to and being with this near-stranger felt much like that very night’s breeze, so easy and soothing.  I was honestly scared my autism-card would fly right out of my wallet and into that lake. The gorgeous lake I probably never would’ve seen, if not for the big brown eyes next to me that saw it first and wanted to share its beauty with me. The same eyes that had filled with concern and tried like hell to convince me to go to the ER.

So anyway, yeah, my Beefy Nacho Griller was burnt to shit.

My overly-charred Beefy Nacho Griller wasn’t the only hot thing in that car that night! My knee was also hot and horribly inflamed. And I suppose my tears were technically warm too, but I did turn my head away so my partner wouldn’t see them and think I was layering on the sex appeal too much. It was only the second date after all; gotta keep it classy. Always leave them wanting more, girlies!!

Once again, thank you, and I am so sorry (unless it’s Bubba that’s reading this. I’ll see you in court.) 

–  K. Allysson Wright, Professional Forgetter, Potential-Cat-Lawsuit-Filer, Sexy-Dislocation-Haver, Questionable-Decision-Maker, Former-Beefy-Nacho-Griller-Eater, Complainer (of many hats), and Literally Nothing Else (unless I’m forgetting another something.)

K. Allysson Wright is a 24-year-old neurodivergent, autistic, queer, physically disabled,
Black/mixed race POC that best expresses their feelings, thoughts, and experiences through
poetry/writing, music, and art. Their goal with their writing is to open minds to new, largely
unheard perspectives and to prove that intersectionality exists and matters.

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