I still don’t get why I never out grew my childhood sins.
A brown plastic mug with deteriorating lettering on the side, perhaps, from its manufacturer’s ineptness or it being everyone’s favorite mug. There was a groove, a halfway mark that I used as my cut-off point to stop pouring the Domino, “crystal sugar.” I’d get to crunching on the unrefined sugar like ice cubes, sometimes adding a bit of water to make a real “meal” out of it. I don’t know if my mother knew about my afternoon snack. Maybe she noticed the residue in the cup or maybe my older brother told her as he had witnessed my crimes against the nervous system.
The emerging of my “childhood sins” has pushed many a Hershey’s white chocolate bars into the grocery basket. Only now, the sensation of sugar in my system causes mood swings and irritability. It’s intravenous drug properties give me hazy-lazy spells that dismisses my company. Sometimes I get “high” to diminish my anxiety, so I can show up for work.
I wonder if the next empty pint of ice cream or tray of cookies will immit me to the same diabetic coma that transcended my grandfather to dust.
I still don’t get it 