Sometimes it's just all too much, right?

I tore up the plate of the nachos with systematic hunger of a state-of-the-art demolition crew, the desire for nachos being fuelled, sometimes, by the same hunger for negation or wish for an act of destruction to be a creation, for however many fleeting seconds that it happens, unto itself. It's that desire that fuels anything from the bedroom to the dancefloor that we call "tearing it up". At some point near the end of the plate I realized I was composing poetry about nachos. Staring past a chunk of pico de gallo, I realized something was wrong.