SMITTEN: lunacy glue for the soul.

Sinful chocolaty goodness.
I'm sweating cocoa.
Most likely a backlash of watching Chocolat and having insomnia. Mighty hypocritical moment of the day! Merely an hour after bemoaning the horrors of "junk food" and how repulsive it is with my dear Kevin, I am hit by intense chocolate longings. I rummage through cupboards and hit the refrigerators, in search of a small brick of carob or sip of chocolate soy milk. The kitchen is devoid of such items. Panicked, I search the lower levels of the pantry...
The forbidden lairs, the shelves of sin. My choco-sense tingles upon the sighting of a Hostess box. Driven as I am, I am somewhat hesitant to look closer. "DING-DONG!" the cheerful box honks in my face. DING DONG! No! Bah! I recoil.
I shun you, harbinger of explosive fat rolls and needless guilt! I have better things to do. Such as...such as…RIP THE BOX OF DING DONGS OPEN, TEAR THE SHIMMERING WRAPPER OFF THE GLOATING HELLCAKE, AND DEVOR THE MONSTER WITH PASSIONATE ABANDON.

No. Nooooooooooooooooo! Why? WHY? Mmmm, why not. Sink. Gulp. Smack.

I stared at the aluminum wrapper in my hand. Hey, that wasn’t that bad. That felt good. That was…tasty. I like junk food. I do. I should have another!
WHAT?
Logic promptly shat upon the lard that was congealing in my brain. I closed the pantry. I stumbled about the kitchen, wondering what to do next. I deciding upon drinking a lot of water. Like that would help.
So now I’m sitting here, at the computer, writing this as a reminder to NEVER EAT A FREAKING DING DONG AGAIN, OR ANY OF IT’S RELATIVES, ESPECIALLY NOT AT THREE IN THE MORNING, AND ESPECIALLY NOT IF YOU HAVE TO GET INTO A BATHING SUIT TOMORROW, CHELSEA, SO FINISH THAT GLASS OF WATER, THEN HAVE ANOTHER. AND ANOTHER, WHY NOT? YOUR NIGHT OF URINATION SHALL SERVE AS A PUNISHMENT AND A WARNING TO ALL !
I’m just looking out for you. I want the best for you. I’m only doing this because I love you.

[My stomach just growled. Have I stirred it’s passions and tempted it’s carnal desires? Was that a groan of protest and utter rejection? A gutteral warning? It sounded kind of like it said “Muuuutinnnny”. Just what I’ve always wanted. An alimentary revolution.]

Moral of the story is: Vomit.

Post.Script. I didn't literally vomit, but I think that is really the moral of the story. I mean, don't eat the Vomit if you don't want to feel Vomitty and then end up writing Vomit on the World Wide Wretch. So I guess that's the moral of the story.