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2002-05-09 | 11:13 p.m.

I love chocolate but since my kids were born I've developed an intolerance to it; either to the chocolate itself or to the caffeine, I'm not sure which. Maybe it's both. Maybe I've cut down on caffeine so much that my system really notices the spike after a chocolate infusion. Whatever the case, eating any significant amount of chocolate now will bring on a headache so severe that it makes me nauseous. The throbbing seems to actually lift my head off the pillow, like an erection tenting the pants in a pornographic cartoon. I've never actually thrown up because of one, but then--aside from my first trimester with twins--I've always had superior control of my gorge.

After several years of chocolate headaches such as mine, a practical person would decide to stop eating chocolate. It took me years just to remember to be wary of it, and throughout this period I've devoted myself to mad science: tinkering with amounts, noting time of ingestion, type and condition of chocolate, and so on. None of this using an actual notebook, which probably slowed down the conclusion phase, but chocolate was had. And somewhere along the line I figured out that I could eat more chocolate with fewer resultant headaches during my period. Aha. Something to do with hormone reallocation, I can only assume; I'm not a real scientist, after all. So you can imagine what I did with this finding. Now there are times when I actually look forward to my period.

So yesterday, along comes my red-headed aunt. (A relief because I had cried All Day Long and was Starting to Wonder.) I hadn't thought about chocolate--it isn't on my mind as much as you might think, given this ode--until just now, when I spotted that unopened bag of Oreos on top of the fridge. I had just spent hours preparing an elaborate meal that went all wrong, and I was remembering how Vera sold her stove after her husband died, because she never wanted to cook again. I was feeling very compassionate toward Vera at that moment (Vera who did cook again, for me and my mother, including once in a great while strawberry waffles for dinner--which was always her idea). And then I spotted those Oreos, and you can guess what I'm doing now. Let's just say I am the Oreo mafia, making innocent Oreos take a long walk off a short pier. Even Oreos can wear concrete shoes. There is a tall glass of milk involved. Okay, there was, but that's all over now. It's time to sing to my toothbrush. Goodnight.

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