January 29

It is my crutch. It is what I live for. I wake up from dreaming about it. I fall asleep thinking about it. My mouth waters at the thought. My stomach growls and my tongue aches for its cool, crisp taste. My breathing quickens. My heart races. I know I shouldn't fall victim to its wonderful taste. It's everything that I should avoid. The very thought of it makes me sick. It makes my stomach groan. I feel bloated and lethargic when hypnotized by its power.

Waking up the morning after a visit with my sweet-tasting friend, my stomach curses at me. My eyelids are slow to open. All of my organs collaborate to weigh me down. They are not individual pieces of my composition. They are one coagulated blob of viscous accumulation and concretion.

I had resisted its urge and itch for 64 days. 64 days of freedom. 64 days of agony. It patronizes my thoughts during times of stress. It lurks in the shadows of my mind during an argument with a friend. The memory of its smooth texture on my palette plays over and over after a long night of work. I want to sink into my favorite armchair and hold its frosty surface in my tired hands night after night. It is my downfall, yet it is my savior. It is what tears me apart and makes me whole.

Although never entirely absent, the memory of its delicious flavor was in the furthest crevices of my mind before last night's shift. The nightly routines started off slow, but like a runaway train gaining speed and momentum the evening's pace blossomed. Visitors came and spent. Laughter was a thing of surplus. My comedic remarks, gestures, and witticisms were things of pure elegance as the night progressed. The evening's gaiety had lifted my spirits and roused a feeling of invisibility and carefree from deep within.

As I maneuvered my vehicle's Rugged Terrain tires over wet pavement towards the local grocer, the lost hunger for sin made a familiar and metaphorical knock on the door of my taste buds. I couldn't, though! I had been so good and faithful. The image of its label on my mind's memory blinded me. It was so serene, yet tantalizing. I stepped down from the driver's side of my eight-year-old pickup and out into the dark parking lot. The giant, glowing orange letters sitting on the roof of the building peered down on me as I entered the brightly lit stomach of the beast.

Past the checkers. Past the paying customers. I could feel each person stare and watch me pass. I could feel their judgment reigning down on me. My rubber-soled shoes refused to make a sound as the aisles towered over me and I made my way to the back. Raisin Bran Crunch was on sale for $2.50 a box. I grabbed two without hesitation. With the Two-Scoops Sun looking out from under my right arm, I opened a glass door, bent down and grabbed a gallon of 1% milk and checked the expiration date. February 13. I could finish it by then.

My feet felt heavy. The moment of truth. It was possible to make a straight line to the check stand and be free of the temptation weighing heavy. I couldn't ignore it though. Like a marching band, the yearning played loud and I could feel its beat vibrate amongst my ribs.

Before I knew it, I was back behind the wheel and aiming headlights through a mist of warm rain. My windshield wipers cleared my vision in perfect rhythm. On the floor of the passenger's seat sat two white, plastic grocery sacks. One contained two boxes of cereal. The other held a gallon of milk and pure torture.

It wasn't too late. I hadn't done anything wrong. I could still get out of it. I sat in my cold and quiet apartment and turned it over in my hands. The frost came off in flakes to rest on my fingertips for a moment before they melted into drops of cold condensation. The plastic fought as I pried it off. The lid held on with all of its might before I forced it away. There it was. Laughing at me from my lap. "Chocolate and vanilla ice creams with fudge brownies and gobs of chocolate chip cookie dough." Ben & Jerry's Half Baked Ice Cream had gotten the best of me yet again.