The other day I wandered into the kitchen seeking out that thing. You know, that thing that you can't quite place before you walk into the room, but you know it's in there. And so, I stumble around, opening and shutting doors. Where is it? What is it? It wasn't in the fridge. And boy, did I stand there with that door open staring into that abyss for what seemed like hours. Probably only a few minutes.
Not in the fridge. Not in the pantry. Not in the cabinets.
It wasn't until I shuffled over to the table to sit while I concentrated, that I discovered IT. Nestled in a basket I keep on the table was a bag of Cheetos. Now I hadn't had Cheetos in such a long time. Years even. Nevertheless, I always keep several bags of chips for visitors. That bright orange bag with Chester on the front. Staring at me, taunting me to try just one.
And so I did. How could I forget how delicious those golden, twisted, cheesy chips are? I wolfed down the bag. Yes, I realize now how gross that was, but I don't care. I accept it.
I am addicted to Cheetos.