What to Expect When Your Girlfriend Turns Into a Hot Dog: For Dummies

I’ve always had this problem. The impending feeling of doom creeps over me whenever things are going well. I can’t help but think that the other shoe is about to drop. My therapist tells me it’s called “catastrophic thinking,” but I think I’m much more perceptive than most people. So I guess that’s how I saw this all coming.

I awoke on the first morning and rolled over to face my girlfriend — the main reason for my happiness as of late. Emily, whose auburn hair normally flamed in the delicate morning sun, was wrapped up tightly in her side of the blanket. Love has a funny way of transforming tiny annoyances into charms that make love worthwhile.

“I’ll always love you,” I whispered.

Carefully, I rose from the bed and crept to the foot of the bed. Feeling a bit cheeky, I wrestled the blanket from her grasp. As I pulled, my eyes widened in horror at what I saw. In my girlfriend’s place was a large cylinder of meat, lightly pink and roughly the exact dimensions as my petite girlfriend, but… you know… more weiner-like?

I screamed at the top of my lungs. What the fuck would you do if your girlfriend had turned into a hot dog? Somehow through my shrill screams, I heard muffled grunting. I rolled the tube over and found my girlfriend’s face on the other side.

“Stop screaming!” She yelled. “You’re not the one turning into a hot dog!”

Realizing she was a somewhat sentient creature still calmed me enough for her to explain.

“See, I woke up last night and was sooooo hungry,” Emily said. “So I went to the kitchen to make a hot dog.”

Emily had been on a mean frankfurter streak. I’m talking breakfast, lunch, and dinner. She had consumed so many nitrates that we had a joke: “You’re eating so many weenie boys that you’re going to turn into one!”

But all those joyful memories were gone as I sat and wept over her newly cured body, adding even more salt to the now mind-bogglingly salty woman I still loved.

“First, it started with my feet,” She said. “Then it worked its way up through my body, one limb at a time, until I was a unified tube of meat. I thought it was a nightmare, so I tried to wake myself. When I realized that the charcuterie-based eldritch horror I had become was all too real, I was facing down, so the mattress muffled my screams. I’m glad you found me before I’m gone.”

“Gone?” I gasped. “What do you mean?”

As I said this, her eyes disappeared, sunken beneath her smooth fleshy exterior. Only her mouth remained visible.

“See, this is how it goes. This wretched curse will not stop until I am one with the beast,” she said.

“Emily, no!” I screamed and leaped to my feet. “We have to call a doctor! We can fix this!”

“I understand if you have to get rid of me after this,” She said. “Just please give me to a good cause. Could you maybe donate me to a food bank or Habitat for Humanity or something?”

“I told you I’d always love you,” I said. “I meant it then, and I mean it now. I love you, Emily.”

She smiled and said, “I love you t –” Then her mouth and remaining vestiges of her face disappeared, lost in the meat monolith that she had become.

My bedroom door remained closed for ensuing days as I sobbed and screamed from the grief. I was scared. I knew I needd to take care of her, but I didn’t know what that would entail.

The first thing I did after opening our room was set the apartment to near refrigerator temperatures. Whether or not Emily was still alive, she always liked a chilly apartment, so that was an excellent place to start. It also took care of the distinct hot dog smell that would expectedly come when a human-sized hot dog suddenly takes up half of your bed.

That brought me to my next problem — the bedsheets. She expectedly exuded a continuous layer of vaguely sticky hot dog water. Now, if I had turned into a hot dog, the last thing I would want is to sit in a puddle of my filth all day. So I made it a habit of washing the bedsheets as needed; however, no matter how often I washed them, the new set was sopping again when I returned.

I tried various systems of venting, washing, and toweling. It was only after I had exhausted all of these different options that it hit me! A readily available, absorbent, disposable solution was already at my fingertips: buns!

I bought thirty loaves of hot dog buns from the store and arranged them in a cocoon in our bed before rolling her gently in her new bread comforter. Of course, I still had no idea if any trace of her was in there, but I liked to imagine that she was feeling awfully comfy and cozy if she was. The starchy bread worked like a charm and only needed replacing every few days. Eventually, I requisitioned a trustworthy local baker to bake me couch-sized buns that would last her over two weeks!

The baker would give me some strange looks when I came, always in the dead of night, to pick up my special order, but he knew that if he wanted the sweet, sweet bun money to keep flowing, then he wouldn’t say a word to anyone about what I was doing. Beneath my frantic, mysterious exterior, I think he sensed the yearning, hopeless love that still churned within me.,

When she was human, Emily loved her skin creams. She used to have a strict regimen that rivaled those of legendary royalty—Pore cleansers, toner, lotion, face masks — the works. So I started brainstorming more ways for her to indulge in some luxury. The problem was even when she was a person, I needed help keeping up with her preferred creams. Besides, she was a hot dog lady now, meaning she played by a new set of rules.

Then I had another epiphany!

What does a hot dog love the most? To be slathered in mustard. First, I started with your standard yellow before quickly escalating to more elegant sauces—spicy brown, dijon, whole grain — the works.

Over the following months, I added little improvements to her living space. She hadn’t deteriorated as one would expect an inert tube of meat to do, which gave me hope she was in there somewhere. 

I would sit in a rocking chair beside the bed and read aloud to her at night with the window open. Thinking of new stories she might like was hard without her input, but I really enjoyed thinking about her so intently. It helped me feel close to her.

Once I reached a good stopping point in our story, I rose, kissed her on her forehead, and turned out the light. Every night I went to sleep knowing that, no matter what, I would always love her.