Daisy Bateman


That’s right, Cheez-Its. You have a problem with that? Because I do, apparently. They sell them in the vending machines at work, for the bargain price of seventy-five cents for a 2-ounce bag, and it is somewhere between sad and scary the number of excuses I come up with for buying them on a near-daily basis. (Examples: “I had a really light lunch.” “I haven’t had any soda today.” “I need the energy for the gym.””If I don’t eat something soon I’m going to hurt someone with a Pipetteman.” “It’s Wednesday.”) There’s just something about them; that first rush of the msg hitting my tongue, the flavor that has virtually nothing in common with cheese, the tell-tale smudges of orange dust on my desk. . . Do I need an intervention? Probably. But when you came to do it I would offer you some crackers, and then we would finish the bag, and before you knew it we would be hunting through our pockets for quarters, because the stupid machine would probably have the stupid “no bills” light on again.

It’s a vicious cycle. A vicious, tasty, bright orange cycle.

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