I have a deeply engrained and impossible-to-kill addiction that I’ve been battling with my entire life.
It’s now become such a crippling addiction that I find myself afraid to attend parties, meetings, or even visiting friends for fear that it will trigger my habit and I will fall down the rabbit hole again. I have to learn to deal with it, and so I’m laying it out right now, for all of you to see and to hold me accountable.
I am addicted to store-bought chocolate cookies.
“Oh, imagine that, a woman who loves chocolate cookies,” you snicker. “I wonder if she also has PMS and is indecisive.” I AM ALL OF THOSE THINGS. And I am humiliated by it. I am a stereotypical lady through and through–I’m kind of ditzy, I cry when kids’ wishes come true, and I fucking love chocolate cookies.
Specifically, they have to be store-bought chocolate cookies. I won’t eat your homemade chocolate chunk amazeballs, and I don’t give a shit about how good everyone says they are. I don’t have time for your love and care and fluttery bullshit. I want my chocolate to taste like the stainless steel and hardened hearts of the Elves who forged them. I want a goddamned Thin Mint. An E.L. Fudge that kicks with a double-stuffed punch. I will even eat a fuckton of reduced-fat Oreos–the type that doesn’t split apart with any kind of decency. I have no qualms about any cookie–excluding the idea that they are all not currently in my face.
If I open a box of Chewy Chips Ahoy, I black out the instant that nebulously-brown-sugar-and-copper taste hits my lips and come-to an hour later with an empty box and a heart full of shame. I once ate an entire box of Pecan Sandies–which are just the FUCKING WORST–because these particular Sandies (which taste LIKE SAND) had chocolate chunks inside of them. For me, that’s like snorting coke out of a semen-covered bathmat. I’ll do it for the payoff, but I won’t enjoy it.
I will fuck up a snack table into an unrecognizable disaster zone.
Don’t invite me to your get-together if you’re gonna slap some Fudge Stripes on a platter and expect everyone to partake, because they are all for me. At every gathering, or truly, home where I have pantry-raiding respectability, I will scope out your store-bought chocolate cookie situation and I will strategize and attack until every single last one of those delicious buttery bastards is in my gullet. I will have embarrassed myself and everyone in acquaintance with me long before then, but I cannot control this.
I will stalk the snack selection of your gathering, making quick rounds through a couple of three-line conversations until I can swing back by and grab a cookie or two, sandwich them, unhinge my jaw, and roar with completion. I repeat these steps as necessary until I’m high off the knowledge that all the terrible chocolate is mine, and no one else can enjoy its simple plasticine feel and explosively-amazing taste.
For the most part, I’m pretty good about choosing not to buy my own cookies. I keep my pantry cookie-free, because I know the downward spiral I face if I keep them stocked. It was literally the highlight of my weekend that I purchased a box of Fudge Stripes and knew I could eat them without judgement because Adrian was gone and my dog’s moral compass is pretty iffy. I’m considering how many meals I can replace with them until my heart gives up out of spite.
I have a problem. And I don’t even care if I never stop.
This was my entire Friday.
Have any weird addictions to a certain type of food or craft or show or other such nonsense?– Favorite Comment From The Last Post: From Jen: “The fish pic. . .my eyes. . .So. Much. Burning.”