I started eating burritos when I was about fifteen. It was a difficult, awkward time in my life. I wasn’t getting along with my parents and started hanging out with a different crowd. I was looking to step out of my stuffy meat and potatoes life, and there was only one way to do it. I turned to burritos.

Sure, I was apprehensive at first, but this new group of friends offered me something new. They offered me acceptance. They offered me a burrito. I was hooked from the start.

I thought that I could just bum an occasional tortilla torpedo from a friend when they were being eaten. I decided I could quit at any time. It wasn’t like burritos had a power over me, or I was actually buying them myself. I would only eat them on special occasions and at parties; a little indulgence never hurt anyone, right?

I didn’t want to be one of those people who needed a fix to get me through the day. I didn’t want to become dependent. I didn’t realize it was out of my hands.

There was something about sitting in a circle and passing the burrito that made me feel important and needed. I felt like I had found the part of my life that was missing. I felt like I had more purpose. I felt full.

In the past few years, my burrito habit has become something much more serious. What once was supposed to be an occasional extravagance now has me yelling out the names of Mexican condiments in my sleep. Last week I woke up huddled in the corner of the Stamp Student Union food court waiting for Taco Bell to open. I didn’t know how I got there; it was quite frightening.

Burritos have taken the place of many things that I once treasured. Things that once guided me are no longer important. I prefer beans, rice, meat and cheese to love, religion and sleep.

It has gotten to the point where I actually prefer burritos to sex. There is no performance anxiety, and no one will get pregnant unless something goes terribly wrong. If my mother catches me in the act, the worst thing that can happen is that she asks for a bite. During burrito enjoyment, I have been known to moan, throw my hands over my head, wince and bite my lower lip. After a particularly gratifying trip to Baja Fresh, my eyes crossed, and I wasn’t able to drive home. My burrito libido has become insatiable – as soon as I finish one conquest, I’m looking for the next.

Like yin and yang, sour cream and pico de gallo must be served in perfect balance. Until recently, every winter I would ignite eight tortilla chips and put them in my window to commemorate the time I mistakenly left a burrito in the fridge and it lasted eight days. I am working on burrito commandments ranging from, “Thou shalt not leave leftovers” to “Thou shalt not speak ‘Chipotle’ in vain.” Praise be to guacamole.

I crave burritos at all times of day, and there are times when I cannot function properly without them. I carefully plan my day around the number of burritos I can eat, and I have started selling my belongings so that I can buy more. I now actively buy and trade burrito paraphernalia. I stockpile bibs, elbow braces and industrial-strength Pepto Bismol in hopes of trading them for Qdoba coupons or a few packets of taco seasoning.

I hit rock-bottom when I donated a kidney to score a half-eaten taco salad from the Jalapeno Grill at the South Campus Dining Hall. I knew that my cravings had started to affect my friends and loved ones; I knew that it was time to reclaim my life.

I admit that I am powerless over burritos and that my life has become unmanageable. I now write in order to make amends to all whom I have harmed in this terrible pinto-bean-induced spiral. I pray for strength and understanding with the sincere aim of never losing control again. I apologize for putting people through this, and I hope to make it up to you in the future.

J.M. Fratangelo is a junior government and politics major. He can be reached at jtangelo@umd.edu.