How hot cheetos almost killed me.

I know, I'm one foxy lass.

However, let's not talk about my oddly angled double-chin and the strange pose I chose for today. I'd like to tell you guys about the time hot cheetos almost killed me. 

First of all, when the incident happened, I was completely terrified. I was convinced that my last breathe was going to be in that instant. That I'd be found on the floor with a gallon of milk in my stiff hand, and with the powdery red kiss of death peppering my lips. 

Back in August, my family made a long trip up to Green Bay, Wisconsin. My parents, who are fully aware of my flamin' hot addiction: purchased three bulk-sized bags of these fiery, ulcer-inflaming mother-fuckers for me. Being the idiot that I am, my complete diet consisted of these three bags for the trip there, and back. Of course, I helped myself to different things while I visited my grandmother in Green Bay. The burgers are great up there, just so you know. 

Anyway, after a thirteen hour drive in both directions, I had completely devoured the three bags that were given to me. This usually isn't a big deal for me, because I've built up a pretty decent tolerance to hot cheetos over my course of loving them so much. We got back in my hometown at around ten-thirty at night, and so I was prepared to go upstairs, and sleep in my own bed. (Nothing beats sleeping in your own bed after a prolonged amount of time away from home.) 

So, I flopped into my bed and was prepared to close my eyes and sleep for a good thirteen hours, when a massive, acidic, killer burp came. I know it isn't lady-like to talk about burping but this shit is serious and I need to tell you my story for your own well-being. The best way I can describe what happened next is that my entire throat constricted, whilst simultaneously igniting to what felt like an over-whelming temperature (possibly hotter than the devil's semen,) not to mention the condemning sensation of asphyxiation. My extreme hot cheeto diet was now becoming fodder for the Spike TV show '1001 Ways to Die'. As I sat up, eyes watering, with my lips puckered in a gravelly whimper, I pictured the cliche' caption at the end of my death-reenactment: 'CHEET-ED' 'BURNED OUT' 'FAHRENHEIT 451 CHEETOS'.

 I blundered my way down the stairs and immediately steered myself into the kitchen. The first thing I grabbed out of the fridge was an entire gallon of 2% milk. (Keep in mind that my mother was in the living room watching TV at this time and could have turned her head to watch this or even help me if she hadn't been distracted.) I unscrewed the lid and threw it on the floor- collapsed dramatically on the tile and nursed the lip of that gallon like a newborn cow, guzzling as much of that fatty flame-killer as I could. The only obstacle I had to face was the fact that my asthma was now reacting with my swollen throat- making it extremely hard to swallow. So I'm spitting milk all over the ground, crying in the kitchen and begging for the Goddess of flaming-hot cheetos to spare my life, and the relief refuses to come until I've dumped at least half of this milk down my throat. 

My mother walked into the kitchen to find me crying on the floor with a hoarse voice, lying in a pool of 2% milk, thanking 'sweet baby jesus' that I'd survived, and had my first near-death experience.