The Last Box

I just ate the last box of mac and cheese. By myself. In a fit of 'fuck you, society, and your recommended portion sizes!' related rage, fueled perhaps by the fact that my pets will not let me sleep and have forced me to develop a sixth sense for when they are scraping the couch to pieces (it reminds me of nails on a chalkboard and I react in the same vocal way of yelling 'noooo', sprinkling in expletives as the sleepus-interruptus night progresses).

Perhaps for some eating the last box of mac and cheese is no big deal, hey! Just pop to the store for some more! But for some, like me, it is a sorrow-filled goodbye of powder cheese goodness and (an unasked for, damnit!) road to better arterial health. I do not live in the cheese dipped great country of the United States. Nay, I live across the Atlantic in FreezingColdWeather-Land where the comforting warmth of mac and cheese is scarce and my only source is the postal whim of my in-laws. My super healthy in-laws who think we eat too much bacon.

Oh, woe. Woe is me and my mac-less life!