I bought a package of Chips Ahoy!® brand chocolate chip cookies to work yesterday with the intention of nibbling on one or two a day for the next few weeks. We don’t keep cookies in the house because the domestic partner doesn’t trust himself around the irresistible deliciousness of pre-packaged snacks. I, however, have long maintained that I am in complete control of myself in the presence of uniformly stacked circles of crumbly brown-sugary goodness flecked with melty bits of chocolate. At least at home.
Because today when I reached in my food drawer for a couple cookies, I found nothing but apples and oatmeal and low-fat granola bars. Because apparently I HAD EATEN THE ENTIRE BAG OF CHIPS AHOY!® BRAND CHOCOLATE CHIP COOKIES YESTERDAY.
I. am. so. ashamed.
Thankfully, I still have a bag of really shitty candy-coated chocolate Easter eggs in my other drawer. And I am totally able to eat them in moderation. Because they taste like Barbie shoes. But they contain chocolate, which is one of the essential writer food groups … along with Diet Pepsi, honey-roasted peanuts and bitter regret.
But with only a few morsels of plastic chocolate in my belly, it’s been a long, long day. Longer than a conference call in a sun-baked meeting room. Longer than watching Dubya try to recite the alphabet in order. Longer than there’ve been fishes in the ocean. Higher than any bird ever flew. Longer than there’ve been stars up in the heavens.
God, I need a cookie.