Closet eater

As we speak I am sitting in my closet eating candy. Yep, It is 8:30 p.m. Why? Because it has been a hellish day and I don’t do Meth. I’m one of those people that likes having teeth. I also have no desire to blow a stranger for a hit. These are cheap and can be found in the bulk section at my local grocery store. No crack house necessary = score!

It is my drug. The other reason I am hiding is I don’t want to share it with my kids. They take everything. “Can I have a bite?” means my son is about to steal my entire sandwich. I watch him drop crumbs on the floor, drool falling out the corners of my mouth. He doesn’t care that I haven’t eaten all day.

I don’t get to finish anything. Going out for an ice cream cone with them means I never get to eat the flavor I wanted. I wish I could say: “No, I don’t want to trade for your f-ing cotton candy cone. It’s disgusting. If I wanted it I would have asked for it. In fact, I asked you four times if you wanted the kind I ordered. You said no so you lose!” Instead I smile with my jaw clenched shut and say, “Sure, buddy!”

Yes that is a handful of caramels. I was once told by a young Irish lad that I eat “old lady candy.” So what? I’m not ashamed to admit I enjoy tossing back a butterscotch disc or root-beer barrel. Just leave me alone and let me enjoy it. All of it.

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