This Is Your Brain on Cheezits

I have a personal ban on Cheezits because their deliciousness causes me to completely lose my will to have a smaller ass.  It's a true story. The Fella loves them too, but he is very aware that I cannot -- CANNOT -- have them in the house because of what we like to call "my little problem."

So of course, when we went to visit my parents for the holidays (which was awesome, by the way) my mom had bought some. For a treat.

She actually bought two boxes.

"They were on SALE, Yellie," she said. "I had to."

Dear Reader, did I lift my personal ban on Cheezits?

Do reindeer poop on the roofs of unsuspecting gift-getters?

OF COURSE I DID. I ate Cheezits every day. The Fella and I poured them into bowls and ate them while we introduced my folks to the joy that is Sherlock. We treated the Cheezits like they were a legit side for a meal. "I'd like a steak, a salad, and some Cheezits." At one point, I briefly considered making it RAIN Cheezits but that would be messy and I am ... not messy.

All of this, of course, illustrated why the personal ban was in place to begin with. I can't be trusted with tiny, salty, cheesy crackers of joy. Tell me that they're mass produced in factories, that they're overly fatty, that they're weirdly greasy and I will tell you this: I DON'T CARE. STEP AWAY FROM THE BOX AND NO ONE GETS HURT OMNOMNOMNOMNOM.

I can't be around them. I just can't. When we came home, the ban was reinstated so as to try to continue to work towards my "wheeee! smaller badonkadonk" goal.

This, of course, means that they're on sale. EVERYWHERE.

It also means that they're all I want. My stomach is rumbling, it's time for some lunch, and I stand in the kitchen, looking into the recently stocked fridge.

"Hmmmmmm," my brain says. "Look at all of the healthy things. Innnnnnnteresting. Hey, do we have Cheezits?"

"Shut up."

"OK. There's ... um ... soup. And some leftover pasta thing. Oh and you could make a nice salad. AND PUT CHEEZITS ON IT WHY DON'T WE HAVE ANY CHEEZITS?"

"CUT. IT. OUT."

"Jeez, fine. We could ... sandwich ... I don't know ..." starts whimpering, "I just really want some Cheezits. Why you gotta be so mean?"

"Bathing suits," I say grimly.

"Ohhhh gotcha," my brain says, and shuts up. I still don't know what I want for lunch because I can't name something that would be tasty and lovely that is NOT a Cheezit.

Sigh.

Happy New Year, Blogland. May all of your personal bans stay firmly in place, and may it be the best year ever.