[PattdownManiac]

Back when I was a little kid and lived at my parents estate we used to have this maid/cook named Esmerelda. I think she was from Spain or something. Well she used to make these breakfeast enchiladas that I really enjoyed.

During one summer at the lakehouse there was some type of problem with the oven and she could never seem to heat them right! It always seemed like the outside was pretty hot, but the inside could be a little hotter. I mean it wasn't an icycle. But it could stand to be a little more heated up.

I told her this in a matter of fact manner but for the whole summer I had to suffer through these marginaly warm breakfeast enchiladas. What that instilled me, was hate. A driving force to push forward, fueled by the anger I felt over how unjustly I'd been treated. Whenever I need to up the intensity, I think about those enchiladas, and how it was expected I would settle for marginally warm cores.