You know what else is bad for me? Getting out of bed. Breathing. Eating pretty much any food that’s not green and tasteless. Listening to the incessant bitching of others.
I could go on and on, but doing so would be bad for me, too.
So, I’m just going to open a bag of Halloween candy, and indulge my sweet tooth while I write this post about why I don’t give a $%^& that the stuff I’m eating is bad for me.
That would’ve cost money, Modern Philosophers, and when I was growing up, money was something to be admired and stashed away for a rainy day. It was not to be spent.
Especially not on the stepchildren.
Thankfully, I only got my grubby little hands on the triangular candy crack once a year at Halloween. If it had been available to me all year, I would have all the Diabetes and need a crane to get me out of my home.
I ate it like such a weirdo. Does that even surprise you?
I nibbled off the white. Then the orange. Finally, the yellow.
Three bites per candy kernel.
Candy corn was bad for me. But what the hell did I care? Kids are invincible!
To be honest, I’m worried that I’m crippling the Chinese economy by not frequenting its restaurants. That guilt keeps me awake at night.
How will the Chinese children succeed if I ruin their country’s financial future?
I need some more Halloween candy. The chocolate with block the glands in my body that produce guilt, and stimulate the release of endorphins that allow me to not give a $%^& that the rest of the world sits in judgment of my candy intake.
I don’t even know when I last had a candy bar, and it’s not like I’m going to be snorting chocolate off the living room table.
Halloween is my favorite time of year. There’s just something about the weather, the costumes, the scary movies, the Otherworldly Beings that go bump in the night, and an overall acceptance of the creepy and frightening that puts me in a good mood.
A little candy isn’t going to kill me. It hasn’t so far, and that mysterious one-eyed fortune teller who read my palm when I was 13, told me I was going to die in a car accident.
Maybe I’ll be eating a candy bar when I get into that accident, but that’s the only way Halloween candy might kill me.
Stop trying to be good, Modern Philosophers, and stuff your face with those shrunken versions of your favorite candy bars.
You’d think they would make larger candy, with the evil plan of getting people so addicted to the stuff that they can’t live without a daily fix.
Major marketing opportunity blown, Candy Companies. Even Willy Wonka dropped the gum ball on that one.
I don’t care, though. I’ll just eat this whole bag of minuscule Mounds bars, and it will only feel like I’ve had two regular size ones.
Like I keep saying, I don’t care that Halloween candy is bad for me!
Never before have I felt so powerful.
Well, except for right now while I am laying waste to this bag of Halloween candy, and not giving two $%^&$ about what anyone else thinks about it.
I ran three miles this morning and will do so tomorrow and Thursday. I’ll run another four miles or so on Halloween.
I’m sweating out plenty of room in my tummy for my Halloween bounty.
Halloween candy is bad for you, Modern Philosophers. Embrace it. Sometimes you’ve just got to do the wrong thing in order to feel like things are right with the world.
And if you’re going to wimp out and be good, send that uneaten Halloween candy to The House on the Hill. Life is being lived here!