Santi Acosta. 
Here’s the thing:
I could really use a grilled cheese sandwich right now.
Like, actually. It’s bad.
The soft, warm bread, coupled with tangy cheese and butter, the subtle crunch beneath my teeth.
The problem: bread and cheese doesn’t quite seem to fill me up anymore.
I hit puberty, and my stomach grew, but my mind didn’t, and now I’m just a little child with an appetite that sprouted teeth.
I could order a burger, but the proteinous meat doesn’t fill my mouth with the warm, senselessness of childhood, doesn’t smell like my childhood home and coverlet, only reminds me that the world has expanded past my picket fence and sycamore trees.
You’re going to judge me, but I actually quite like American cheese.
I know, it’s like, disgusting and processed, or whatever, but it’s the slices served between white bread at summer camp, with the yellow dye sweating under ravenous Texas sun.
American cheese melts, better too. Or slips off the bread in dollops, sizzling into brown spots in the frying pan,
Like the raindrops racing each other down car windows as the road rocks you to sleep.
Sorry, I’m making all of us hungry.
I could use my childhood back.
I need a grilled cheese.