Spicy Bitches

I used to think I had a high tolerance for spicy foods. I’d slop spoonfuls of my parents’ chile sauce onto my carne asada and relish the burn. I’d even relish the less enjoyable second burn, what my Korean friends call BTS (Burning Tonkomong [asshole] Sensation), because once it was over it was like conquering a great evil, one whose pleasure was to shoot flaming arrows into your ass in the most heterosexual way possible.

This thought was dashed when I came across an extra spicy batch of chile. It was carne asada Sunday and my father’d made the chile, so I knew it’d be spicier than average. It was so spicy, I was crying while eating. Crying. While eating! Have you ever cried while you ate? I’m sure you have, it happens often in America, but not as a result of eating chile.

Anyway, I turned to my girlfriend and noticed through my fiery tears that she wasn’t even breaking a sweat.

“What the fuck is wrong with you,” I asked her.

“What the?”

“You don’t find this shit spicy?”

“It’s good!”

“Jesus Christ, what the fuck is wrong with you?” By this time I was bawling. “How come you’re not crying? This shit is fucking spicy, what the fuck!”

“It’s not that spicy, that’s all.”

“Yeah, but it’s fucking habaneros. I can’t even smell this shit without my nose burning. How c-could you f-fucking eat this,” I sobbed into my elbow. “You fucking bitch I hate you goddammit!”

“Oh, God, this chile’s so delicious!” I took her immediately. When I kissed her, I started crying because her mouth was so fucking hot, it felt like a can of pepper spray exploded in my face.