We went to Costco the other day to do some shopping.  I happen to like string cheese as a snack, and they happened to have this huge 3lbs bag of it, all individually wrapped, of the mozzarella variety.  So we picked it up, along with a gallon jug of marinara spaghetti sauce.

So the next day I come home from a long day from work, pop open the fridge.  Ah, there’s that cheese, I’d forgotten about it.  Time for a nice little snack.

An hour later, Lauren comes home.  I’m sitting there on the couch, pants unbuttoned, with my belly full like I’m 7 months pregnant.  Myself, and the couch, are covered in a blanket of discarded plastic wrappers and splatterings of spaghetti sauce, with the half-full sauce jar teetering in my lap.  My eyes were glazed over, my left eyelid drooping heavily, and I believe I was drooling a bit.  I managed to let out a gurgled grunt of recognition that she was home, but the cheese — oh my god, the cheese, too much cheese, I couldn’t speak or breathe.

So she just stands there, all condescending like!  As if I’d done something wrong.  Then she starts going off on about how I need “help” and that this stuff is “destroying my life” and that I’m going to shit white and red tonight and its my own damn fault.  I told her to bloody piss off and go get my puke bucket, cause the 2nd half of that damn bag ain’t gonna eat itself.