Dear Diary,

I ate De Leon again today. I hate myself a little bit more each time, but I just can’t stop. And it’s so much harder because I can’t be honest about this problem with my friends — it’s almost like they don’t want to know each time I come back to work with a plate of perfect tacos, loaded with fresh, homemade salsa. I’m glad I can be honest with you, though, Diary.

I’m not sure how I’m going to beat this addiction, but I know I’m going to have to do it alone. I guess my friends don’t need things like “flavor” in their lives, so they don’t really understand what I’m going through. But even now, just thinking about those amazing spices and that savory shredded beef, I find myself wiping the juice from my wrists … and it’s not even there!

So I just sit and stare at an empty plate. Chip crumbs, bits of fresh tortilla, and red sauce that’s getting watered down by my tears. Are they tears of joy, or tears of shame? I don’t know, Diary, I just don’t know.