The bag of chips sings a hymn from atop the refrigerator.
“Open me,” it serenades seductively, “Consume all of me.”
I try to keep my eyes on the screen, but they dart to the forbidden,
to that which I know I cannot indulge in responsibly.
Nothing compliments my Netflix binge better than the
salty crunch that calls and commands my attention.
Resistance gives way to compromise, “maybe… maybe
this time I’ll just eat a few.”
A lie is a lie, but I love deceiving myself and
pull the bag from the shelf. “Should I weigh out
a serving to stay on track?” I giggle in response
to my own question, while I’ll continue to act
as though I will eat only a few, I know when I’ve
grabbed the bag off the shelf that I have consented
to the events about to happen.
The next half hour is spent in a daze. The sound the
bag makes when opening is so rewarding. I continue
to watch my show, bingeing while bingeing. Harmony.
In the transition between shows I lick my fingers, brush the
crumbs off my chest, wipe the crusts off the corners of my mouth
with the napkin, and reach for my drink. The bag is empty and
despite the fullness of my stomach so am I.
Another fifteen minutes pass and a new song begins. A sweet
melody from the freezer reminds me that chocolate is my
soul mate. The countdown to the next snack attack begins.