Heaven on York

It starts out as harmless fun, casual, social. You have some with your friends, dip them in milk, lick the center, all fun and games. Then you get cravings, you can’t fight it, so you go get some more, enjoy with friends. Then comes the itch, the sweats. You search high and low, the cupboards, the dishwasher, a crumb, smeared creme filling, anything. Finally you cave, go out and buy them, break the bank. Buy them in bulk, on loan, layaway. You eat them, and eat them, and eat them. Then starts the hiding, in your room, under the fridge, behind the topiary in the corner, under the cushions- oh wait, that was from last time- in the DVD player, wherever there’s a spot, they’re hidden. Then comes the intervention- they care about you, they’re worried, you’re hiding, gaining weight, you’re not sleeping, they hear you chomping through the night. Denial, denial, denial. You brush it off, it’s a cookie, where’s the harm? Then, out of the blue, overdose. Sugar shock so bad your jaw locks and you’re ass is glued to the toilet. Brown teeth, chocolate creases on the side of your mouth, stained clothing, and there you are looking like a chocolate and creme Picasso. Ugly. Two, three, maybe four months to recover. Red, beady eyes, hoodie cinched around your face, creases, 5 years off your life, miserable. Oreos don’t even cross your mind other than in nightmares. You get the occasional nausea, but it always passes. You live your life, never thinking about the horrible experience, just trying to get by, keep it in the past. You go to work again, play sports, read, call your mother, clean your room, go grocery shopping, it’s all good. Then, aisle 4, blending in with all the other cookies, you see the blue package, the alien Nabisco, white trim. Beckoning you. You walk past, walk back, then past again. 15 minutes of pacing like a vulture over dead meat. You know what’s happening and you have to face it like a grown up. There’s no other choice. Relapse.