|Like a neverending gobstopper, but more appealing
||[Jul. 13th, 2010|02:27 pm]
Someone near me in the cube farm has a bag of salty-crunchy. From the sound of it, potato chips. For the past three days, he or she has periodically been munching his or her way through it. Loudly. He or she may have several bags...because I could have hoovered three or four entire bags over the time period. |
Potato chips are my dietary achilles heel. And every day, about mid-morning, at lunch time and mid-afternoon, the crunch, crunch-crunch begins.
I will either kill him or her, or break down and go downstairs, buy my own bag, eat them, and then be filled with self-loathing.
And then proceed with the homicide.