Addiction

Hi, I'm Jason and I have a tiny marshmallow addiction.

Hrm.

That should read "Tiny Marshmallow" Addiction, not Tiny "Marshmallow Addiction."

Because the addiction is not so tiny. It is large and powerful. It is the marshmallows that are tiny. Tiny and delicious.

They live inside my big bucket of hot chocolate mix that I keep on hand for my morning doses of Chocolate Coffee. During downtimes in my office, I carefully excavate the tiny marshmallows from the cocoa mix and then devour them. I am like an archeologist of marshmallows, only more hungry.

At this rate, I will run out of marshmallows long before I run out of cocoa mix. This is very bad, and yet I can't think of a solution. I can't imagine what will happen when I no longer have access to my tiny marshmallow fix.

I'm going to continue to live in denial for now, and pretend that there is no actual bottom to my bucket, and that the marshmallows continue all the way down the strata to China on the other side of the world.

Did you ever try to dig a hole to China in your backyard when you were a little kid? When I lived in Homer, Texas (Population: 46) my best friend from across the field (of course we had a field) and I decided to undertake this mission. Only we used the field, rather than the backyard. Mostly because my backyard was actually more of a forest than a yard.

I do believe we got exactly 3 feet into the ground before we recognized that the idea might be beyond the scope of our tools (one shovel and a spackling trowel, and each of us being about 4 feet tall) and went back to our extended imaginary world wherein we battled against invisible but ultimately evil beings who lived in the trees of the forest and were made mostly of mud.

I would say this shows that I was pretty pragmatic kid, but mostly it just shows that we were really, deeply weird. In any case, it also led to one the primary indicators of exactly how clumsy I would grow up to be: Despite the intense largeness of the field, I still managed to fall into that stupid hole at least three times while we lived there. The odds of that have got to be astronomical; I mean that field was frickin' huge.

(Aside: The other two main indicators? I managed to fall and break my nose twice before I hit the age of, like, 9. It's a miracle my face remains passable today. I'm still really self conscious of my nose, though.)

Wait, wasn't I talking about marshmallows?

Crap.