lactose gets me every time

I picked up the chocolate bar.

No-one was looking. No-one would know if I ate it. All I really wanted was one bite, and that would be enough for a chocolate-deprived.

“Eat me”, I imagined the bar pleading underneath its wrapper. “Eat me! I am nothing without being eaten, and that requires someone to eat me: You!… But”, the chocolate bar’s tone turned a hesitant shade of reluctance, “I will be nothing then, because you have eaten me… Maybe you shouldn’t eat me just yet.”

(I hate it when my overdeveloped sense of irony turns inanimate objects into philosophers.)

By this point, The Voice in my Head suddenly woke up to my potential error and whispered loudly “You’re lactose sensitive! And you’re in bed right now because of sinusitis! The last thing you need is more reason for your sinuses to go crazy!”

I hate it when The Voice is right. And it usually is. I place the chocolate down slowly, when suddenly, an even louder voice calls for attention: “Idiot! You’re in a dream! You can’t suffer from a reaction here!”

D’uh. I grabbed it, unwrapped it slowly, smelt that rich brown darkness along the length of its glory, and promptly munched it as fast as I could, before The Voice could interrupt again, or before I woke up. Even for someone who doesn’t usually crave chocolate in real life, this one provided a real fix.

But as I chucked away the wrapper, smiling from the mix of happy hormones and artificial sugar hitting the highways of my veins, i felt The Voice’s revenge: a post-nasal drip starting up, slowly, ever so slowly.

Not even in my dreams, do I get a respite.

Damn you, Lactose.

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~ by translating for peas on October 12, 2009.

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