April 07, 2013
Mexico, '04. I was about fourteen, naive. Vulnerable. Looking for a purpose. The food? Cookies. COOKIES. Sweet, cookies.
My family is Hispanic, and I've known them to be avid cilantro users. I never really truly hated the stuff, but that's mainly because I've never had the full brunt of the demon weed shoved down my throat. And I never knew my family hated me.
My aunt made cilantro cookies. To poison me with. Little did I know the entire family had worked up an immunity to the venom over years and years of nonlethal doses. They almost had me too; had I not vomited all over everything they owned, I probably would have succumb to cilantro poisoning.
It's been nine years. Nine, long, agonizing years, but I've recovered. I live alone in a single bedroom apartment, downtown Norfolk, far, far away from Mexico. Ain't never going back. I've almost fully recovered my sense of taste, but smell, yeah; that ain't never coming back. I've since abandoned my family, my racial heritage, and shaved my head.
Stay away from cilantro, kids. It'll wreck ya.