Have you ever wanted to use gasoline as lipstick? Or wished someone would start a campfire up your nose? That’s what it feels like to eat the new Pringles Hot Ones. A chance to be transported to the surface of the sun without your shoes on.
I don’t usually eat Pringles. But I was recently dumped, and it’s left me with a lot of free time to go to the grocery store with my critical mother. She was raised in Poland during communism. Even her hugs are violent.
“Straighten your back when you walk,” my mother says as we enter the grocery store. “You’re hunched over like a depressive.”
I see a sign with fake red flames: PRINGLES! NEW FLAVOR! AISLE 5!
I am depressed, by the way. I was dumped by a thirty-five-year-old man with a combover for a haircut. He ghosted me. Disappeared like a fart into the night.
I move through the grocery store. It’s a labyrinth of cold gray aisles, like the chambers of my ex-lover’s heart. Did I just say that out loud? I feel my mother’s communist eyes on me. “You need a haircut,” she says.
