Let’s talk, for a minute, about the Kogi truck.
Korean short rib bbq tacos with kim chee. On tortillas. With a special sauce, which I think might be made entirely of smack.
See, there’s this fleet of trucks and they drive all over and Tweet their locations. Hipster scum all clamoring for a fix of Kogi will wait for HOURS in line. So will I, but I’m not a filthy hipster, I just queue behind them for tacos. For hours. Because there are hipsters IN MY WAY, standing between me and the tacos and it is in public and I cannot pretend we are in a prison shower and shank some refugee from Urban Outfitters, as much as that might get me to the head of the queue, and therefore tacos, faster.
And now Kogi has brought their truck and made a regular stop not half a mile from Casa Fabulous. It is worse than a crack house on my block. I can walk past a crack house, all nonchalant and “no thanks.” I do not have a problem with any chemical substance, natural or man-made. Ok, except maybe Cinnamon Dolce lattes from Starbucks, that might be a small problem. But otherwise, I am zen and groovy, y’all, with the addiction free existence. I can start making my coffee at home at any time. I can. I just choose not to.
But tonight I realized… I might have a Kogi problem. I caught myself going through empty purses and backpacks for loose change, turning out pockets, searching through the sofa cushions, pulling my hair and asking the children if they had any money. “Lend me a dollar baby, mama needs a fix.”
None of us had any money but I remembered that the ex Mr. Honey and Ollie usually has cash, so I texted him and told him to come over.
I totally booty called my ex for taco money. Except, there was no booty. Just tacos.
They didn’t even make it to the car.
So next week when you see me standing on the corner looking a little strung out, compulsively checking my Twitter feed for the Kogi update, you’ll know why.
hi, my name is Rainy, and I will do anything for a Kogi taco.
