Suddenly, everything was gone. We had grabbed as many of the tacos as we could—our pockets bulged with salsa and grilled steak—and now we had no idea what to do with them. Inevitably, the Fire Sauce would be our undoing. Or perhaps our salvation. Only the Jello-Owl knows. It perched high on a branch with an apathetic affect and called into the night, "u jelly." And I was— I was incredibly jelly. I'm so lonely, though. I've found the best remedy for that unnamed, ephemeral loneliness is always found at the conclusion of a KFC Double Down, as I'm balling the dripping wrapper up in my greasy sausage fingers and dropping it "accidentally" in the parking lot as I walk back to my car. I glance back at the soggy KFC Double Down wrapper, now a wilted white plot on the black asphalt, and smile knowing it would be the last trace of me they would find. But the potato wedges, those damned potato wedges. The mere smell of the things invariably leads to an unwelcome dip into a boiling pool of memories; the kind of memories one would prefer, ultimately, to keep wrapped in bandages, hidden in some disused place. They say scent can be a powerful trigger for memory, but I say that theory stinks. I mean it's really ridiculous, can you even remember the smell of the series finale of Lost or what it smelled like when you finally beat Sonic and Knuckles?

The preceding was a story you participated in on Monday, October 27 2014. The sentence in bold is yours.

Story prompt by John Holdun. Sentences in this story path were contributed by david yee, zigg, Butt O'Connor, @derekarnold, mark, Casey Kolderup, eden rohatensky, nicolerza, Alissa, Keith, Joe Toscano, Evan Walsh, and Mike.