Taco Bell Matrimony: A Love Story Nobody Approved

Featuring blue BuzzBalls, twenty soft tacos, and a relationship held together entirely by vibes and poor decision-making.

In honor of Cinco De Mayo, Readers, let me tell you the deeply concerning story of how my boyfriend and I would absolutely, under no circumstances whatsoever, get married in a Taco Bell.

Now before some of you start lighting candles and ordering bridesmaid dresses, calm down immediately. WE ARE NOT GETTING MARRIED.
This is hypothetical. Fictional. A dramatic simulation produced by my caffeine addiction and inability to stop romanticizing fast food.

Dayna specifically, I can feel you already opening Pinterest boards. Stop it. He can remain your brother spiritually. There will be no legal paperwork filed with the government. Relax.

Anyway.

I have always loved Mexican food. Tacos? Elite. Life-changing. A personality trait honestly. I could survive exclusively on tacos for a month and emerge spiritually stronger. But then Craig entered my life like some emotionally unstable Taco Bell prophet and suddenly tacos became our entire relationship brand identity.

It was March 2025. We had been officially dating for less than two months which meant we were both still clinically insane from the honeymoon phase. Craig was obsessed with me for reasons I still cannot explain scientifically, and I was in my usual emotional state which is:
“This is wonderful. It will absolutely end in disaster.”

Because Readers, from my perspective, this relationship made zero sense.
It was complicated. Unconventional. Slightly unhinged.
And yet there I was, falling entirely too fast while internally preparing for emotional collapse like a woman boarding a cruise ship during hurricane season.

So naturally we all decided to attend a concert together.

Now technically the boys live in the Phoenix area so none of what happened next needed to happen. But this was our first concert together EVER. Bestie wanted “the experience,” which is usually the first warning sign before chaos unfolds.

For reasons that still remain under federal investigation, Bestie allowed Craig to book the hotel room. This was a catastrophic lapse in judgment. The hotel itself was fine technically. Clean. Operational. Possibly the site of several unresolved paranormal incidents. But the important thing is Craig has never been permitted to book accommodations again since that night and honestly I think that’s healthy for society.

But that is not the point.

The point is we went to the concert, had the time of our lives, got aggressively tipsy because concert drinks contain approximately seventeen shots of tequila and one molecule of mixer, and stumbled back to the hotel sometime around midnight with the stability and coordination of newborn deer.

This was also the night BuzzBalls entered our lives.
The origin story.
The cinematic universe begins here.

We had gone into Walmart earlier intending to buy Fireball, but it was locked up like a federal weapon and none of us had the patience to locate an employee. So instead we grabbed a giant blue BuzzBall because apparently our decision-making abilities had fully dissolved by then.

So there we were.
One hotel room.
One giant blue BuzzBall.
Three emotionally unstable adults fresh off a concert high.

And then Craig, a man who has never once paused before acting on an impulse, DoorDashed the Taco Bell family pack to the hotel at like 1am.

Readers when I tell you this man ordered enough tacos to feed a youth soccer league.

Twenty soft tacos.
Sauce packets everywhere.
Cheese in places cheese should never be.

We woke up the next morning inside what can only be described as a tortilla-based crime scene.

And somehow that became us.

The tacos.
The late-night food runs.
The ridiculousness of it all.
Somewhere between the BuzzBall and the hot sauce packets my brain apparently decided, “Yes. This emotionally chaotic man. Keep him.”

Now again.
For the historical record.
I am NEVER getting married again. Ever. Absolutely not. The government will not trap me in paperwork.

HOWEVER.

In the purely fictional cinematic version inside my head?
The commitment ceremony is absolutely at Taco Bell.

The venue? Taco Bell.
The catering? Taco Bell.
The drink fountain? Blue BuzzBalls flowing like a cursed waterfall.

I’m wearing a giant rainbow dress like a disco ball escaped into society.

Craig is dressed head to toe in black with eyeliner, black nails, and emotionally supportive emo energy radiating off him like cigarette smoke outside a 2007 Warped Tour.

Our song? What Could Go Right by Thomas Rhett because honestly that title alone feels like foreshadowing.

So yes.
I may have the entire thing mentally storyboarded down to the sauce packet centerpieces.

But it is NEVER happening.

Anyway. Happy Cinco De Mayo. 🌮

Craig will probably DoorDash me tacos after work because apparently that is his self-appointed duty as my boyfriend and honestly he takes the role very seriously.

And unfortunately for my personal brand I really do love that man.

Do not tell him I admitted that.
I have a reputation to maintain.

PS - This photo is courtesy of ChatGPT. The “fictional” wedding venue.