They say the first step to solving a problem is writing a lengthy post on the internet minutely detailing your tiny struggles so strangers you’ll never meet can virtually pat you on the back and say, “Me too, man,” which will magically fix everything. So here it goes: I am addicted to avocado toast.
You ever feel a tingling behind the neck? A sensation that something or someone is watching you, discussing your name, plotting against you? I felt that this week and looked around, suspicious, only to remember I live alone and have no friends or enemies to speak of. “Dodged a bullet on that one, dude,” I said to myself, isolated from everyone I’ve ever loved.
Once in that positive state of mental health, I wanted to snowball that momentum further, rushing to a place full of constructive nutrients and well-informed individuals eager to give helpful advice—the internet. Scrolling through my social media feeds, I was so very happy to see all these authentic people living such amazing, unattainable lives I could never afford. It made me feel real good about myself.
But it didn’t last. Because I saw a tweet that sent me into a tailspin.
Millionaire to millennials: Stop buying avocado toast if you want to buy a home https://t.co/JVpbiLrvv5
— TIME (@TIME) May 15, 2017
Wow. Witnessing those super true words, finally seeing them on a screen, has my fingers trembling. Experts say addiction creeps up on you, swallowing you whole before you realize it’s too late, but that wasn’t my experience. Every time I spent $19 for smashed avocados on toast, I knew I was living a lie. I knew by eating avocado toast that my #goals, like owning a house, were slipping further away.
Who cared that home ownership possibly represented outdated ideals from a byzantine capitalistic empire whose very thirst for perceived success almost bankrupted this nation? (Um, yeah, I’ve seen The Big Short; I get the mortgage crisis, okay?) I didn’t wish to see the world, experience various foods and “adventures,” connect with cultures outside my own, and potentially grasp my tiny place in this complex universe. What I wanted was a damn mortgage I couldn’t pay. Loan payments and property taxes was what I dreamed of laying awake at night as a child, a picture of Our Royal Queen by my bedside.
My whole life my dad was like, son, get yourself a degree and find your passion. Tap into what makes you special and what you can offer this world. Travel if you can. And I always said, “No, Dad. Stop trying to make me live life my own way. Let me have what you had. I want a mortgage. A mortgage keeps you strong, keeps you healthy, keeps you trapped in endless monthly payments. Only through a mortgage could I find meaning in my existence.”
Parents never understand.
But because of my avocado toast addiction, every morning the cycle began anew. An insatiable craving deep in my belly demanding to be fed. It wasn’t hunger (it was kind of hunger); this was deep-rooted addiction, with ailments like pounding migraines, physical weakness, and mild insecurity I couldn’t stunt on these hoes.
What avocado toast symbolized—to me—wasn’t success or royalty. It wasn’t bourgeois hipster culture literally spoon-fed into my mouth as a means to fulfill trends and declare my wokeness. It wasn’t even about the anti-aging properties, or healthy fats, or any of that nutritional garbage.
Avocado toast just looks really tasty. I mean…
How could I deny such a beauty? I didn’t care how avocado toast made me feel, I loved how it made me look. You couldn’t understand such an addiction, unless you were a douchebag millionaire who literally builds luxury-style property that feeds into this toxic aspirational, gentrifying lifestyle where avocado toast fucking thrives and lives.
Perhaps, if you were someone like that you would understand why so many like myself are afflicted with this avocado toast addiction and might possess the bravery to speak on it. I’m so glad a random Australian millionaire did. Honestly, it’s the hardest struggle of my life.
I once tried to overcome that struggle. Like a zombie, I entered this café, mumbling my order, sliding my card as if I were in no possession of my very body, watching my dreams of a mortgage slipping away. I sat down, trying yet again to deny my addiction, to take back control.
I hovered over the toast, granting myself just a whiff.
I knew if I were to beat this demon it would require a massive confrontation, the likes of which I couldn’t fathom. Was I capable? What abilities did I have to defeat this monster? As a millennial whose every action stems from sustaining this massive ego of mine—a.k.a. the giant void inside me I can never fill—my skills were limited. I could develop my #brand, hit the perfect selfie angle and lighting, complain about my problems online, and spend money. (This is all millennials can do, right?)
My talents were restricted to the basic millennial starter kit. I couldn’t buy the deluxe packages—including, but not limited to: sweet Europe backpacking pics, athleisure digs, and a useless grad school liberal arts degree your parents paid for—because I kept spending all my funds on avocado toast. I didn’t have much, but to eradicate this addiction once and for all, I had to confront this thing head-on at the height of its powers.
So I broke the yolk.
Food porn at its most dangerous….
It’s so creamy, and runny, and yellow…
Please, sir, could I just peek a little closer?
Like that, it was over. I cut off one bite, just to remember how it tasted. Then I had another and another and another. Soon I was lost in the sauce. The mouthfeel overpowered every other sound appeal. My love of avocado toast knew no boundaries. This was no casual dalliance. One bite meant seven hundred more.
That day I ordered 47 pieces of avocado toast.
Afterwards, with no funds left to afford a down payment, I did as I always would and laid down with the remains of my pain. I wanted the whole café to witness my shame.
Now you know my struggles. You’re here now. And I need your help. Please assist me in defeating this avocado toast addiction crippling millennials everywhere. This avocado toast addiction is the sole reason none of us buy houses, I promise you. Someone you know is struggling against this right now. Alone we are weak and stand no chance. Together…well together we just might qualify for an FHA housing loan.
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