Mr. Lay has kept me happy for years. I only wish he had been enough.

I love potato chips.

Now, you may be thinking to yourself, "Well, sure, I love potato chips too. What's the big deal? Doesn't everyone?" And I believe you do dig potato chips, and agree with you on your point that pretty much everybody enjoys them. However, I have a real problem.

I am hopelessly infatuated with them. I want them. I need them. Oh baby, oh baby. And Mr. Lay has been the appetite of my eye for the majority of my life.

Our relationship started very early on in life, sometime in my early childhood. It was love at first bite (because I assure you, even with as bad of a pun as that was, my little four-year-old stomach knew love when it tasted it) and I could never get enough. I would gorge myself at any given chance. If there was a bag I had knowledge of and the ability to reach, I emptied that buddy like a Hummer's gas tank on the highway.

My obsession with Mr. Lay didn't stop with him. I was introduced to his friends rather quickly: the delightfully textured Dr. Ruffles, the crisp and robust Sgt. Snyders, the fun-loving and zesty Sr. Frito (he was really into salsa), and the slim, lovable M. Pringles. You can only imagine what my life has been like, I'm sure.

Seriously, I promise you guys that this is not going to turn into one of those situations where I happen to be one of those people that marries a roller coaster or something. I'm just really addicted to potato chips.

 

So addicted, in fact, that I can sit and eat an entire bag of them without batting an eye or lolling into a horrible sodium-induced food coma. MSG might as well stand for "Magical Stomach Goodness" or "Must Scarf with Gusto".

I apparently can't get past the knowledge that it's supposed to be bad for me long enough to stop eating them.

 


It's like if a T-Rex happened to come upon a tasty little herd of snack-sized dinosaurs.

 

Covered in barbecue sauce.

 

Frozen in place by some unknown telepathic force.

 

And were lightly salted.

Now, how could he, in all his tyrano-delight, not feast grandly upon them all? You could bet he'd snap those suckers right up, probably in as equally a propelled manner as I do my chips.

 

I've been telling myself to break off these relationships for years. You know, just see them every once in a while, maybe a phone call here or there, but instead I find myself devouring them whole whenever they find their way into my house. Which is all too often, and usually in numbers of three to five bags. All of which I inhale within that same week/ three or five days. It's about as healthy as rolling around in raw meat, deodorizing with barbecue sauce and jumping into a bear pit. (I must really want some barbecue something right now, that's twice in one post now!)

I'd say around 2/3rds of my diet is potatoes of some kind. The other pieces are devoted to ice cream, fruits, and broccoli. There's a sandwich in there somewhere. I really should have transmogrified into a spud at this point. I've been wondering for a long time now what would happen to me if I stopped eating potatoes all together. I keep imagining raisins and/or raisin-like things. My chemical make-up has so bonded to the almighty tater that my DNA may just unravel itself in its absence. Be that as it may, I feel this must be done. I will sacrifice myself. For science.

So, instead of going to counseling with these chip chaps, as much as I care for them, I've made up my mind to quit them entirely. At least for a month, anyway. To grow my horizons. Experiment. Whathaveyou.

Think of all the mankind I will be benefiting. Oh the benefits. My chip harem will be loathe without me, I'm sure.

I'll keep a jaunty little log here to track my withdrawal status (I assure you there will be fits of spasms and cataclysmic longing) along with other spurts of thought and stories. I'm pretty sure blogging was invented for rambling, and that I can certainly do.

I am here your entertainment,

Rini