At the end of the first week I knew I was done for. It had been seven days since my last fix, and I had no idea how I was going to make it.

The doctors told me I would be fine, but I wasn’t convinced. How could I make it another 19 weeks without a Chipotle burrito? I tried to explain it to my Chilean host family, but they simply gave me a funny look and told me I was overreacting. Clearly they had never experienced the sensational mouth orgasm of a Chipotle burrito.

The days grew long, and even with the passing weeks, the time before I would be reunited with my 1,200 calorie friend seemed an eternity away. I tried to satisfy my cravings by pursuing extracurricular activities, but nothing seemed to suffice.

Everywhere I went and everything I did seemed to pale in comparison to what I was missing back in the States. National football matches, Machu Pichu, mere child’s play compared to even the faintest memory or daydream I had of the voluptuous sour cream. There was only one solution: I had to get back.

After the grueling five-months, I finally crash-landed back in Minnesota. After haphazardly grabbing my bags, I darted out to the pick-up lane four, where my younger brother was waiting with the car. There was no need to exchange words, a simple nod between the two of us was sufficient, and we set off on our journey.

Thirty miles of highway and three roadkills later, we were finally there. I knew my brother had to be curious about what I had been doing for the past half-year in South America, but at this point all of that was irrelevant. All that mattered was that I was back in the good ol’ U.S. of A where I could get back to doing what I do best: making my arteries more clogged up than the sewage line running out of John Goodman’s house. I knew the best place to do this, and that was Chioptle, the perfect reunion with America.