You awake early on a cool Fall, Sunday morning in November. Sleepily get dressed to take the dog for a walk. As you leave the house with the dog bounding excitedly to, you notice as you shut the door two tupper ware containers sitting by your doorstep.
It's a bit too early to feel so inquisitive, but your senses are stirred by what may be in the packages. You know it's food, but what kind. While the dog inpaitently runs back and forth waiting for you to get underway, you pry the lid off one of the containers only to find this looking back at you . . . .
What would you do?
Eat it of course. "It" being singular, as in one, and only one.
However, you are not me now, are you? One is too many, and a pan full is not enough.
This is unlike anything you've ever tasted. It is like those moments in life that completely define every aspect of your soul. This is no mortal food. It must have been left by the gods themselves.
Not only has the sweet, delicious taste of chocolate brownie and pumpkin pie made it's way past your taste buds, but the decadence has made it's way into your brain and through your body, like a heroine junky getting their first fix of the day.
Nothing like dessert in the wee hours of the morning to send your better judgment off the deep-end and kick in your sense of selfishness. You become like a drowning sailor clinging to a life preserver, no one else is getting any and you guard them with your life. It's all for you.
By noon, your sitting in the corner of a darkened room shaking uncontrollably . . . suffering from withdrawal and in a deepened sense of depression - they are all gone. There were only six. Cold sweats take over you. Frantically you try and call your "pusher", but they don't answer. You madly search the kitchen, then the entire house for any stash of sweetness that remotely resembles or tastes like the decadence that was once yours.
Your wife finds you on the curled up on the floor of the bathroom, face resembling a powdered donut, you're surrounded by white powder and an empty bag of confectionary sugar lay beside you as your legs twitch uncontrollably.
She shakes her head in shame and disgust. She feels sorry for you, but cannot stay.
*Tanya, please, please, please . . . . the next time you deliver meals to the house, please be sure to put the dessert into Christine's hands! ; )