...with Twizzlers.
The problem is, I'm addicted! Like super duper addicted. To be fair to myself it's not just a matter of will power (or lack there of)...it's a matter of genetics. The women in my family (namely on my mother's side) have a predestined condition when it comes to this delicious strawberry licorice...we can't get enough!
Exhibit A: my mother. You give her a bag of Twizzler's and in 5.2 seconds the bag has been cracked opened and she's got a Twizzler hanging out of her mouth.
Exhibit B: my sister. It's not uncommon for Michelle to devour nearly an entire bag during a movie (unless I'm there, then she only eat 50% of the bag and we're practically fighting for the last piece).
You see, the odds are against me! So naturally, while Antoine and I were at the grocery store last night it wasn't unusual for me to pull the whole "Hey Antoine, look over there" move while I snatched up a bag of yummy Twizzlers from the shelf and threw it into our basket. And it's not surprising that once Antoine and I got home I opened said bag of scrumptiousness and started shoving them IN MY FACE! And it's not the slightest bit strange that while we were watching tv last night my hand made created a choreographed dance from the bag, to my face, back to the bag and then back to my face (repeat about 25 times) with only minute pauses in the routine for chewing and breathing. And I'm not totally obsessed when, this morning, I took a handful of delightfully chewing and fruity Twizzlers as I was headed out the door for work, for a "driving treat".
Quit looking at me like I'm crazy! I'm not crazy! It's an addiction. No, it's not just an addiction, it's a disease. One that I must face daily. And yes, I am currently seeking a support group...after I finish off the bag of Twizzlers I have at home. No point in wasting it, right?
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