Cryin’ won’t help you. Prayin’ won’t do you no good.

When I was younger, I used to eat Bugles by placing one Bugle on the tip of each finger and pretend I was a werewolf (because they looked like claws). When that game got old after a few hours, I’d snack on those sons of bitches like a frog lapping up flies.

This game created a pleasant association in my mind, creating a subconscious affinity for Bugles. I managed to go years without partaking in a Bugle snack session, so after spying a bag today at lunch I regressed to the fond memories I had and bought them up. I broke open the bag and commenced Operation Wolf: Lunchtime Horror, but Father Time thwarted me once again. The years have packed on costly millimeters of flesh onto my digits and now they are much too big to fit a standard size Bugle on the tips.

With the mental association dashed, I began to eat them plain. And you know what? They’re just fucking Fritos shaped like horns. Nothing special. Another childhood memory tarnished by the cold reality of age. It’s true what they say, you can’t go back. It’s also true when they say that you can’t kill a werewolf by tearing off its claws. The wolf will howl again.