Gorge, Blaspheme, Hate!

I'm pretty sure my memoir would be called Gorge, Blaspheme, Hate. Oh elusive, effervescent nirvana, your fickleness irritates me. I've tried detoxing and decluttering but time and circumstance draw the line at decamping halfway around the world in search of tranquility. Surely the answer can be found closer to home--like at the bottom of a bag of Fritos?