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The Addiction

Admitting you have a problem is the first step to recovery. I'd like to believe that, but I don't I'm an addict. I admit it, but I still can't quit. I wake up every morning thinking that this will be a new day. I can do it, I tell myself. But by mid-afternoon, I've had my fix and I'm already thinking about tomorrow, when I can start to stop... again.

The guilt is overwhelming at times. People without addictions don't understand, they say quit or just have a little. That makes me laugh. My brain doesn't work like that, no addict's does. Once I start I don't want to stop. I feed the demon and relish in the short term high, ignoring the crash that inevitably will follow. Once my skin starts to crawl, I know what I need and I find it. I see children with it all the time, where are the parents, I wonder, don't they realize what's happening... most of the time only when it's too late.

The holidays are the worst time. Even though I know what's about to take place, I can't stop it, it calls to me. Finally I get what I need and then some. It's an insidious substance that I desperately need to escape, but I have too many triggers; places, foods, times of day, emotions and others, all catalysts to my daily downfall. It's been so long, I know it's beyond mental, it's physical, withdrawal will be a required price of exit, but can I quit? What will life be like without it? I can't imagine. Not yet anyway, maybe later, I hope.

During those moments of surrender when I lift my obsession toward my eager nose and waft the sweet scent before ingestion, the purity of others runs through my mind. Should I settle or hold out for a premium brand, maybe something European. They've been around the longest, and while the most expensive, the experience is worth the price. At any cost the sensation is over too soon, once the last remnants dissipate in the back of my throat I feel satisfied, but it doesn't last. I want more; I need more.

I try not to keep it in the house. I don't want it in my life, but it's there, despite my efforts. I've gone out in the middle of the night to find it, and sometimes sadly even my friends and co-workers have purchased it for me. They understand it's a fight that sometimes, most times, I fall short of victory. I know they want me to stop, but feeding my madness can be less disruptive than the chaos of just allowing me to succumb to it.

Lately, whenever I need to score, I go to Crossgates Mall. There's a spot in the old section where some, like myself, and others not as needy, at least not yet, can purchase it in one of its most untainted forms. I don't always need the best, and have often accepted less, but given the choice; I find it harder to settle now.

Feeling the arousal, I take the escalator as gold boxes and red ribbons dance in my brain. Finally, there it is. There are others that would fit the bill; Lindt, Hauser, Toblerone, Ghirardelli, but at this moment it's Godiva. For many that name conjures up another, more risqué image, but for me, a confirmed chocoholic, it's caramels, creams, nuts, pralines, solids and the most damaging of all, the dreaded truffle. How is it possible a food source roughly the size of your thumb can pack that many calories? There should be a law. Not that I would obey it, for me it's too late. But if you're listening, save yourself! Don't give in to the Amaretto, Cashew, Espresso, Cognac, Grand Marnier, Pecan Caramel, Mandarin Orange or infamous Double Chocolate. If you fall victim to this addiction the price will be a pair of love handles that will make you easier to carry around than a new set of Samsonite luggage, midnight excursions and a cholesterol count with a comma in it. Well, you've been warned, now if you'll excuse me, I've got an important engagement with a naked lady riding a white horse.

 
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A Royal Treatment
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