As I sit here, one Hershey’s Kiss away from a coma, I’d like to express a special thanks to the makers of processed sugar for all you’ve done. I, a faithful servant, nay, slave, to your colossal power, would bow at your greatness if I thought I could get back up.
I’d like to thank you for this pulsating headache, jittery edginess, and the racing flow of pure white powder that runs through my veins. Like the white witch of Narnia, you control the masses with your succulent decadence and we, your faithful followers, spiraling in a diabetic frenzy, devour all you have to offer with such unadulterated pleasure. For this, we thank you.
Sadly, however, our life long relationship must end. For, with each bite I feel myself slip deeper, my will destroyed, my life ebbing away, descending into a chaos from which I may never return. As my life is sucked from me with each white mocha caramel chew, every pretzel shaped butter cookie, a small part deep inside my mind screams, “Stop, don’t do it! I want to live!”
No more, I say. NO more.
And right after I finish off that six pound tub of chocolates, I’m going to stop. Oh, and the king sized tin of butter cookies has barely a dent in it…such an expensive thing, I’d hate to waste. But right after that, no more.
I feel so much better, now that I have goals. Just knowing the almighty power of those bleached granules of ecstasy no longer hold my reigns gives me hope. In fact, I can probably eat this last Hershey’s Kiss and be just fi
