I was watching TV the other day when a commercial for a weight-loss program came on. The woman in the ad said, “I’m a chocoholic and any diet that lets me eat chocolate, is the diet for me.” Yeah, right. That woman is a fucking liar. She doesn’t even act like a chocoholic. How would I know? Yeah, that’s right. My name is Smivey, and I’m a chocoholic.
OK, I hear you snickering out there. When I say I’m a chocoholic, I really mean it. Some people can eat one piece of chocolate a day and be satisfied. Others have to devour an entire box. That’s not chocoholism. That’s just a sweet tooth. No, being a chocoholic is a much more serious problem, one that requires years of therapy. And months of dental work.
So how does one become a chocoholic? Well, I can’t speak for everyone, but for me, I think it all started when I was eight years old. I was riding the swing in the playground when the town bully threw a rock at my head. Naturally, I attempted to retaliate. But my small arsenal of pebbles was no match for his boulder and catapult. After regaining consciousness, I ran home crying:
“M-m-m-momma,” I whimpered. “th-th-th-the cataplult-t-t-t-t. . .”
“Oh, shut up,” she replied in her soothing voice. “Don’t be such a fucking baby.”
“B-b-b-b-but-t-t-t-t-t it hurt-t-t-t-t-ted” (She was right. I was a fucking baby.)
Frustrated with my childishness, my mother left the room and returned with a mini chocolate bar and a tall glass of milk. Within minutes, I was feeling better. Not just better, euphoric. Perhaps it was the sugar in the chocolate. Or maybe it had something to do with the caffeine. I didn’t know and, frankly, I didn’t care. Whatever it was, one thing was for certain: I had to have more of it.
Well, it turns out that my mother had slipped a quarter of a tab of LSD into my milk that day, but by the time I found out about it (15 years later), it was too late. I was already addicted to chocolate. How addicted? Let’s just say I wasn’t too picky about what kind of chocolate I ate. I started by devouring entire bags of those Halloween fun-size chocolate bars, but before too long, I was doing shots of Hershey’s syrup and popping M&M’S® like they were. . . well, candy. Hm. You know what I mean.
Of course, a chocolate habit like mine didn’t come cheap, but my parents did everything they could to keep me well-supplied. That is, until I reached adulthood at age 13. That day, right after I blew out the candles on my birthday cake (chocolate, of course), my mother handed me a slice and pushed me out the door. The bitch didn’t even give me a fork.
After that, I lived on the streets, begging for chocolate Kisses®. Most of the time, this would result in either getting kicked in the face or some horny man nearly molesting me. But every once in a while, someone would know exactly what I wanted. They’d smile at me, hand me a delicious foil-sheathed morsel of chocolate, and then they’d kick me in the face. One time, someone didn’t have any Kisses®, so they gave me a handful of those chocolate liqueur bottles. Since I was only a minor, I carefully bit off the top of each confection and poured out the icky alcoholic contents before devouring the waxy, tasteless chocolate.
That kind of thing went on for what seemed like months (It was actually five years). Then, one night, I just snapped. No, not literally. That would hurt. I needed chocolate and I needed it bad. The few Hershey’s Kisses® and occasional M&M’S® I was acquiring were barely doing anything for me. If I didn’t find a better chocolate source soon, I would probably die. Or have a really, really bad headache.
I set my sights on a small chocolatier located just a few blocks away: Los Chocolette. Fortunately, their chocolate was much better than their French. I sat across from the shop and took mental notes of their entire security system. After a few days, I had the whole thing figured out: There was no security system. All I had to do was pick the lock and before I knew it, I’d be swimming in chocolate—figuratively, of course, but I hear it’s very good for the skin.
That night, as soon as the owner locked up and left, I pulled out my lock-picking kit and got to work. Picking the lock was a lot harder than I thought it would be. For one thing, my lock-picking kit consisted of an unbent paper clip and some old gum. For another thing, it was too dark to see what I was doing. Fortunately, the lighting problem was only temporary. A streetlight turned on and lit the area just perfectly. Well, at least I thought it was a streetlight. Turns out, it was a flashlight—a police officer’s flashlight. Oops.
So yeah, I spent that night locked in a cell with a man who only went by the name of Steve. You could try calling him David or Mikey, but he wouldn’t respond. He’d just look at you like you ate a small rodent. I know this because when I did eat a small rodent, he gave me the exact same look. Hey, a guy’s gotta eat.
Anyhow, that’s not important. What’s important is I did my time and now I live a happy, healthy life. I went back to school and graduated from Junior High with a degree in Marching Band. I even have a real job, working in an ad agency. Yeah, everything is cool, just as long as I stay away from chocolate. Seriously, if I even so much as see something that resembles chocolate, you better get out of the room. I will fucking kill you for chocolate. Well, not white chocolate. That stuff tastes like shit.
25 Comments