Snack Attack

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.

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