Some people might like bacon, but I, I love bacon. Sure, I’ve loved before, and I love now, but not the way I love bacon. My bacon-love is unconditional. My initial past loves had been failures— mainly because of my unforgiving expectations. But somehow, bacon’s found a way to my heart despite the hurtful things it’s caused me like the few gained pounds here and there, and the many oil splatters that I’ve endured and have seared my skin like a leather whip on a flagellant’s bare back. Oh yeah, it hurt, especially the one in my right eye— but time heals all wounds, especially the kind that involves many slow breakfasts that last all morning long.

But bacon is versatile, not only is it perfect next to my two over easy eggs and two slices of toasts. It’s perfect in my split-pea soup. Sprinkled all over my salad. Above my hamburger meat. In my clam chowder. My corn chowder. Any chowder for that matter. It’s even divine in my sushi rolls.

Oh just to be near bacon! I’d be L or T at the drop of a dime. I love bacon for what bacon is. Despite all the fancy things that dress it up; mayo, eggs, lettuce, tomato, etc., essentially, like Shakira said in her song:

“Underneath Your Clothes There’s an endless story There’s the bacon I chose There’s my territory And all the things I deserve For being such a good girl honey…”

Except, I think she said “man” instead of “bacon.” But who’s paying attention? I love bacon for how it makes me feel. I long for mornings that have promises of breakfast buffets that include my true love. As far as I know, pigs can fly, because every single sweet and salty crunch sounds like an angelic choir of cherubs to my ears and every chewy nibble is like pure bliss to my palate.

Like recessions, boyfriends come and boyfriends go. Postage stamp rates go up and keep going up. Viruses are named and renamed. One thing remains constant and certain— and it has nothing to do with death or taxes. It’s simply my bacon-love.

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