callistahogan: (Default)
I think it's time to admit something.

It's been long enough.

I am about to share a part of myself that seems obvious to everyone who knows me in real life, but wouldn't be immediately obvious through the screen of a computer. And it seems like it is the time to lay all my cards out on the table, revealing a facet of my home life that hasn't yet been revealed.

It's simple, really: I have an obsession. Now, don't misunderstand me when I say this. It's not an obsession with drugs or drinking or any other bad thing you could come up with. It's not a “good” obsession with writing or this very game or doing well in school. Instead, it's something at once more enjoyable and yet more dangerous than any of the above.

The very beginning of my obsession is hard to pinpoint. All I know is that suddenly, I had to have It, and if I didn't have It, I was going to die. Or so I thought (I tend to be a little overdramatic).

“Did you get it?” I asked my father as I slid into the front seat. After a long day of boring teachers and the never ending torture that was gym class, I needed something to help me relax.

“Yes,” my dad said. “It's in the back.”

I grinned. “Thanks, Dad!”

The ride home was torture. I imagined the bag in the backseat, containing the item that was ready to staunch the flow of my obsession, and I couldn't wait to get home. We drove along the streets, much slower than I would have liked. Finally we pulled into the driveway of my grandmother's home, where we had been staying for the past four years.

I made my way up to my room. The wait was almost unbearable, but I had to wait. My dad was going to put the groceries away, and then he'd bring the bag up.

It had been a week.

If I had survived a week without It, then I could wait just a few more minutes.

The minutes passed. My dad made his way upstairs, the sound of the bag rustling by his side soon becoming too much for me. I jumped out of my uncomfortable red chair and bounded out of my bedroom, holding out my hands in expectation.

My dad smiled and handed the bag off to me. I smiled in return, clutching the bag tightly to my chest.

“Yay! Thank you, Dad!” I squealed, retreating into my room.

I sat back down in my chair, the bag resting against my thighs. For a moment, I stared at it, a smile curving up my lips. The anticipation killed; my mouth watered even as I just stared at the bag. Slowly, I took the contents of the bag out, throwing the bag over my shoulder and into the trashbin.

The remaining bag crinkled satisfactorily as I opened it. The sweet aroma reached my nose, and I inhaled deeply, ingraining the scent into my mind. There was nothing like it, I decided, as I reached inside the bag. After more than seven hours of my half-purposeful, half-inadvertent fast, there had to be nothing better than this—fulfilling my obsession.

I put the first chip in my mouth, closing my eyes, savoring the crunch of the chip as I brought my teeth around it. The paprika and salt exploded in my mouth, causing a wave of flavor (and calories, can't forget the calories) to spread across my tongue. My obsession was staunched, fading quickly as the individual flavors tickled my tastebuds.

Ah. There's nothing like the first barbeque chip out of a bag, wouldn't you agree?

--

This has been my entry for week 16 of [livejournal.com profile] therealljidol. This topic was particularly hard for me, and this entry's not quite what I would like it to be, but please vote for me anyway? I just found myself completely stuck with this topic, and I hope that this isn't too bad. I'd really love to stick around. :(
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callistahogan

March 2010

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