Peer Pressurin' Mofos

I had been doing so freaking well. Yes, I was on an all cheese diet. And yes, the only supplement to that diet was caffeinated beverages of the highest degree (chocolate coffee in the mornings and Coca-Cola at all other times, day or night). But had I been eating candy? With the exception of what was in my Easter basket (what? you don't get an easter basket? why? just because you're over the legal drinking age? screw that. I am all over that shit. hollow chocolate bunnies own me.) I have been remarkably restrained in the area of refined sugars.

Then Jim comes to town and before you know it, he has placed Pixi Sticks in the cart at the grocery store. Suddenly it is the middle of the day on the Tuesday following and I am literally vibrating in my chair because I just finished off my second pack of Pixi Sticks in the last 36 hours, chased intermittently with Jolly Ranchers in all colors of the rainbow. Do you understand what this is like? Akin to quitting cigarettes cold-turkey and then suddenly people keep handing you delicious carton after carton of your brand, acting all innocent while all the time pelting you with lighters.

In reality, they are pushers of the highest order. "All the cool kids are eating sugar," indeed.

So, I'm wired out of my mind, twitching uncontrollably, and getting so much work done it's like I'm not getting paid by the hour anymore. This is obviously untenable. To borrow a line, we are in a run-out-the-clock situation here, 1.5% blood to sugar ratio or not. When you've finished every possible thing in the office and it's only 1:30 and you have to start dusting things to look busy, you know you've gone to a bad place.

I've reached that plane I used to need to get when I was on an all night programming binge, where everything has a sort of surreal glow and I can almost hear the command prompt whispering to me. Of course, in the real world, one does not need this plateau. When my most complicated task of the day involves the phrase "collating and stapling," priming my brain to "22 hours of graphical interface coding" is something like aiming a firehose at a teacup.

I blame all of you people, though. Bad influences, the whole lot. I was perfectly content with my cheese. As soon as I get out, they try to reel me back in. So sad.

Now if you will excuse me, I have got a box of Sweetarts to attend to, and wow, five envelopes to address and stamp.