School is out. As usual, the yearning for home overcomes your senses, once you pass through the front doors, and the ability to resist the urge to walk those three miles fades with every passing moment.
Today, however, there is something different.. something special. Your imagination had earlier produced numerous theoretical representations of it during the time in the day, in which Teacher had droned on about the mysteries of our world. "Boring", you thought to yourself, as you made that final step, fumbling your key to the lock, which granted freedom.
Your entire life passes before you, everything spinning. You could have sworn you were drunk, but you've never had a sip of alcohol your entire life. The afflicted senses begin to blend together, creating excitations never thought possible before. Were you a herbivore, the thought would disgust you, but the pungent smell of meat is impossible to mistake in the closed environment of your home.
"I'm making ROAST today! It should be ready this afternoon. Have a good day at school", the scene sparks across your memory.
Incapable of creating electrical impulses independently, your body reacts to its human intuition, almost cartoonishly, and you nearly float toward the source of the odor. Your feet sheepishly finding ground through the sensory overload, your blurred, hungry vision provides you the mental picture of a large pot containing an entire cooked lamb, the meat literally falling from bone, deforming the creature's shape. Beside it, appears to be ambrosia, the liquid of the gods (in this case, as a sauce), as well as a mound of freshly-conceived tortilla chips..
In a craze, you gather heaping amounts of every element onto the nearest flat surface, your core instincts demanding you to combine the three magics. Here, they expectantly wait for you, yearning for your buds- the only thing missing is a fork. The pivotal eating utensil raises no flags in your head, as far as chores are concerned, the quick trip for its retrieval being a pitiful attempt at a setback. You arrive back at your heap of carbohydration in a matter of seconds, and the shock of what you find leaves your mind shattered, the pieces strewn across the tile floor.
In some incredible act of heresy, an evil force has acted upon what used to be your most prized possession for the last five minutes. A sickly-orange goo has coated your mountaintop, and tainted the ambrosia. It was no longer freshly grated cheese in its melted and delicious form. Enter Nacho Cheese Sauce. You'd seen and tolerated it in your past, scheming upon Sam's Club shelves, and later enhancing lesser flavorless triangles of corn, whose crusty exteriors appealed to your time constraints at your local gas station. The chips you once knew as good friends were now soggy and unable to heft the lightest of toppings. Who did this? Who ruined mother's cooking!?
WHY!?!
As you sit in a half-insane stupor, mumbling to the world about what could have been, the last piece of sentience in your brain reminds you that you'll never be the same.
And as you sit there, mindlessly poking at the edible portions of your meal, it becomes apparent: THERE IS NO GOD.
Thanks, Rocky's, you made me an atheist.
