It is time for me to take a good hard look at myself. Why do I eat so many biscuits? Why is just the one or two never enough? Why are all the best biscuits the most unhealthy, artery clogging, weight scale shattering objects of brilliance?
THE CONFESSIONAL OF THE MORBIDLY OBSCENE BISCUIT ADDICT
So it comes to this. Only my third entry and the breakdown is already upon me. I even ate a chocolate bourbon the other day. I don’t even like chocolate bourbons! And listen to me! Are there any other types of bourbons than chocolate ones!? NO! I have clearly taken leave of my senses. I am having a biscuit crisis! CRISIS!
This stark realisation of my precarious position only became startlingly aware to me after I gratefully received one of those wonderful biscuit selection boxes, the ones that include the rare but delightful Happy Faces. Surely the most accurate embodiment of a consumable to express the joy of it’s delighted consumer. (That sentence just doesn’t look right, but I’m lazy. It stays.)
I stared in delight at the wonderful collection of delights in front of me. This was like staring at the contents of a really cheap Pandora’s Box. But maybe that’s the whole problem. Maybe that is my horrible Sisyphean task. To eternally eat these ghastly biscuits in order that no one else hast to. Am I some kind of vile guardian to society’s health and prosperity? No. That is delusions of grandeur. I am just a filthy glutton with no willpower, destined for the third circle.
Ugh! The crisis is surely upon me, just look at that last over indulgent paragraph! Not one, not two, but three references to Greek or Roman mythology. I’m here to talk about biscuits god damn it! These are black days.
Anyway, I’m supposed to be confessing something aren’t I? Well the truth is I don’t think I actually like biscuits all that much. I just eat them because they are there, and because I’m so miserably malnourished that they constitute a viable food group. I would eat carrots if only they looked and tasted like biscuits. But that would make them biscuits, so I’d be right back to square one.
Christ, you’re bored of reading this now, and I haven’t actually confessed to anything that you can really get your teeth into, like a Garibaldi. Sorry.
Still, I left one Happy Face in the box. All is not lost. (back to the mythology again, what a pompous pseudo-intellectual prick I am.)
Fig 1. Fuck my hat! That’s not a happy face! If biscuits could give you a nasty dose of the clap, that’s the face it would make afterwards.