Crunch . . .
Eating twenty-seven dollar tortilla-adjacent chips with a heated cup of nacho-style cheese analogue product in a plastic service container makes me feel at home inside the movie theater.
Crunch . . .
That’s a mouthful of truth.
Crunch . . .
Especially if I’m watching Ingmar Bergman.
Crunch, crunch . . .
Because I’ll be honest with you: Bergman’s a little intimidating for my ass.
Crunch . . .
I hate to say this . . . but I don’t feel like I’m as smart as Bergman.
Crunch . . .
But if I have my comfort food right there on my lap . . . well, you know, I can sorta cope.
Crunch, crunch . . .
I can more easily come to terms with my lowly place in the scheme of audience, you know?
Crunch, crunch, crunch . . .
Yeah . . .
Crunch, crunch, crunch . . .
It’ll be alright.
Crunch, crunch, crunch . . .
