My sweet Taco Bell,

I know not where to begin singing praise. Should I start with pointing out the succulence of your Crunchwrap Supreme? A dish (or burrito. Whatever) so delicious, so irresistible that I continue to buy them, despite the fact that I’ve broken my permanent retainer twice by biting into them. But don’t fret, my flower. I would never hold my impending dental bills against you; it’s not your fault that your eponymous crunch is the bane of orthodontia.

Perhaps I should move on to your sweet burritos. My persnickety penguin, your tubed beef wrapped in love and flatbread is a celebration of the fake Mexican cuisine you aspire to be (remember that time you went to Mexico and billed yourself as American? You are so versatile, my scampering sea urchin). I never mind the farts you give me after ingesting one (or two, or five) of those delectable bundles of passion (and fake Mexican food), because I can taste the devotion, the solicitude, the love that went into making my meal.

Alas, how have I gone this long without talking about your almost-overwhelming variety of beverages! I’m particularly fond of your mango Frutista Freeze. The last time I had the privilege of ordering one, your delightful staff gave me three whole strawberries! The syrup almost took up a whole fourth of the surface of your chilly deliciousness, my open-hearted okapi. And when I don’t want pseudo-fruit, I have your opulent soda fountain and its plethora of sodas, lemonade and water. Your restaurant overflows (ha! Get it?) with liquid carbs and fizzy wonderfulness.

I could go on, my pensive porcupine, but I have one of your taco salads in front of me that requires my attention. I hope you understand, my diamond.

Always yours,

Allyx