A Diatribe on the Christmas Cookie

Oh, how I loathe that delectable little devil. It sneers at me and mocks me. I can hear its evil laugh echoing down the hallway. It calls to me in its tempting, diabolically subtle tones like the Sirens on the ocean shore. Yet, unlike Odysseus, there is no one to tie me up, to keep me away from their perilous call.

And they never come alone: they are a phantom pack, a school of pirahnas, a regiment of soldiers relentlessly marching towards me to the cadence of "Eat me...eat me...eat me!!!!"


They know my constitution is weak and will power is an abstract concept.

And they look so pretty. But it is a farce, a sham. I know what they are made of...butter! sugar! sugar! butter!

Just eat one, I say to myself. Okay two, no, five. Yes, five at 5 o'clock...8 at 8...9 at 10. Oh, the headaches, the blubbery middle, the stretched seams.

Everyone tries to placate me. "You just had twins. You look great.", they say.

But I know the truth...

And so does that gosh darn cookie(s).