On Friday night, I arrived for work at my second job (a group home for disabled adults) and was greeted with a note – Please help them to make chocolate chip pancakes for breakfast. Then, looking up, I saw it. It was sitting on the counter, waiting for me.
A 72 ounce bag of chocolate chips.
The bag was a monstrosity – literally an affront to God himself – yet it was also more beautiful than a newborn child. Though inanimate, it nonetheless greeted me with an open expression, as if to say, “Come, friend, and ravish me.” Were the chocolate chips not reserved for Saturday’s breakfast, I would most certainly have torn open the bag and had my way with it. However, level-headed discretion is the name of my game, and so I just took a picture of it so I could blog about it later.
A lesser man might have opened the bag that night and snuck a few chips while everybody was asleep. However, an illicit chip-nibble by moonlight holds little appeal to me. If I can’t fully indulge my base cravings in a groaning chocolate orgy, then I want nothing at all.
So on Saturday morning, after sitting up all night staring at the enormous forbidden bag, I made chocolate chip pancakes. Everybody seemed to enjoy their breakfast, despite the fact that I was muttering petulant obscenities the entire time. All my chocolate chip fantasies had been snuffed out, like a wriggling rabbit held underwater for too long.
Alas, though the enormous bag of chocolate may not be mine, I will always carry the memories of it with me. I mean that literally – I have already printed out a wallet-sized photo of the bag so I can have it on me at all times. It will sit comfortably next to my treasured images of my son Oliver and debauched Russian mystic Rasputin.
Goodbye, 72 ounce bag of chocolate chips. I’ll likely never see the likes of you again. I hope you’re happier where you are now. If I call out to you during the dark times, please answer me. I have nothing else.