I don't like hot sauce. I don't even like spicy foods at all, let alone cholula. My mom doesn't like hot sauce either, and she comes to visit me more than my dad does. And even he doesn't like hot sauce all that much. Spicy food yes, but not hot sauce. Maybe I needed the bottle for a particular recipe. I've lived in my house for two years and I don't remember ever buying cholula; I don't remember ever using cholula. I must have needed it for something since it's in my refrigerator; I have no idea what that reason would have been. But it lives in the door of my refrigerator and occasionally tries to escape in a form of defenestration, hoping to leave a large pool of neon red liquid across my tan tile floor. Maybe it was one of those cases where I thought cholula was something every household should have, so I brought the bottle home for purely selfish reasons. I ripped this bottle of cholula from the grocery store shelf and the bottles that were packed in the same place on the same day, in the same batch, never to be reunited again. And I just let it sit in my refrigerator, slowly going stale or sour, or whatever cholula does as it reaches the end of usability. I should be kind and throw it away, let it be crushed in a compactor somewhere and let cholula seep from my mangled garbage bag into a landfill somewhere in Tampa, feed the thirsty, sandy soil with spicy hot liquid that I could never appreciate. Maybe one day. But for now, it can sit, dormant, waiting to ever be opened and burn the mouth of someone who loves the heat that only cholula can bring.