The Nacho-to-Laundry Pipeline

There’s a direct correlation between how many nachos I’ve eaten and how many shirts I’ve ruined. Spoiler: it’s a lot.

It starts innocently. A casual chip. A drizzle of something melted. A dollop of sour cream that promises to behave. And then—betrayal. A slow-motion topple. A jalapeño escapee. The unmistakable sizzle-splat pattern of cheese that has both bonded to cotton and to my sense of shame.

I’ve done more laundry because of nachos than I care to admit. I’ve soaked stains, scrubbed collars, and shouted “NO!” at garments like they personally let me down. At this point, my washing machine sighs when it sees me coming. My wardrobe? About 30% napkin-optional at best.

And it’s not just nachos. No, this goes deeper. Once, in what I can only describe as a low point of both judgment and sauce physics, I destroyed a $90 hoodie with a McRib. That hoodie never recovered. I never fully recovered. And the sandwich? Not worth the fabric carnage it left behind. But that moment set the tone: wear cheap clothes when eating like an emotional gremlin.

So no, I don’t eat in clean clothes anymore. Laundry Day has taught me that snacks and fabric are at war—and I am Switzerland, caught in the splash zone.

But you know what? Worth it. Every time. Because fresh laundry may smell like renewal, but a plate of loaded nachos tastes like living.
And if the price is a few tragic sleeves?
So be it.

Image created using DALL·E.