There's a container of brownies in the kitchen and they're calling my name. It's not the normal kind of call that red wine makes, which is more of a low, slow Barry White type of call, with some really lovely and unexpected boyish undertones. It's certainly not the same as the Milk Duds in the entryway. They are almost fratty; more than anything else, those guys catcall when I walk to the restroom. And it's that kind of behavior that keeps me from eating any of them. That and the fact that you can always feel your pudge a little bit more when you're walking. No, the brownies have the voice of the guy I once dated who I'd smartly toss and let back in only weeks later, in one of those truly healthy cycles of the singleton. The brownie's call is one of sweet perfection, one of comfort, one that promises me a perfect match of goo and crumble. Unfortunately, they are just no good for me. So I wish they'd stop calling. Notice that the yogurt in the fridge is mute. As are the celery and the apples. I hear absolutely nothing out of them.
All this temptation…..and I don't even like chocolate!
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