Like most white people, when confronted with a bowl of Doritos, I lose my fucking mind.
I will, left unattended, eat the entire bowl, the crumbs at the bottom, the salt and flavor dust at the end—then pathetically drag my finger through the residue and suck on it like a starving orphan.
There is no cocktail party, no book party, no opening or closing of anything where, if Doritos are present, I will not abandon all dignity—and every conversation—to lurk near the bowl like a junkie