I bought a Butterfinger the other day. I went into a 7/11 to buy some peanut butter m&ms, and a Butterfinger wormed its way into my heart. I put it in the refrigerator and ate it a third at a time over two days. I ate the last of it this morning in my bed while I was avoiding getting up and starting my day. (Still in my pjs, actually, but don't tell anyone.) God, Butterfingers are delicious. Honestly. They are truly dangerous, though, like crack. Now that I've had one, they're all I'm going to think about. One hit, and I'm hooked. I want another one right now. A whole one, not a third of one, cold from the fridge so I can chip off the chocolaty coating and then eat the weirdly orange center in little bites to make it last. Oh my God. I've got it bad. There's a monkey on my back, and its name is Butterfinger.
The only antidote may be gazpacho soup. I made a batch yesterday, the flavors have been melding all night, and I'm the only one in my family who likes it so its all mine. I don't know if it will quell the Butterfinger fire in my belly, but I have 2 quarts of it and I'm willing to give it a try. Why is it that all the stuff I love is bad for me? Like candy and cokes and the Kardashians? In the afterlife I have constructed for myself, I can eat whatever I want, as much as I want and its all free and healthy and guilt free. I could eat 14 Butterfingers and then go admire my butt in the mirror. If I could be guaranteed an afterlife like that, I would totally go to church.
Addendum: 7:30 p.m. Gazpacho soup? Gone. Delish.
1 comment:
When I worked at one of those ice cream stores where you mix in whatever you want into the 'scream, one of the hardest things was explaining what a B'finger was to the foreign tourists. I think Bart Simpson said it best, "Crispity, Crunchity, Peanut Buttery"
Post a Comment