C is for Cookie. Among other things.

I've mentioned before that I'm dysfunctionally Type A. That I obsessively set goals, but achieve them in the most insomniac-crackomatic ways possible.

The fact of the matter is that, neuroses aside, I typically do achieve them. My friends would believe me if I said I was moving to the Bahamas to study marine life, or doing historical research for an erotic novel set during prohibition and publishing it before my 24th birthday, but I sense the proverbial eye rolls whenever I mention the one nagging goal I can never seem to achieve:

"I am going to lose ten pounds by (insert date)." I say this at least 5 times a year (or 5 times a minute, if you count the voice inside my head). But despite my best efforts, I remain a constant size 6 (in Apple Bottom jeans. Regular jeans are made for Inglourious Butts. Not for me. Or Joan Halloway.)

But today, the root of my problem came into focus. It is so obvious, I can't believe I didn't pinpoint it earlier.

I have Cookie Monster Syndrome.

Symptoms:

--If you put a cookie in front of me, I will eat it.

--Hell, just typing "cookie" makes me crave chocolate chips and oatmeal raisins and toasted coconut drizzled in chocolate (It's all about the classics. And the Girl Scouts.)

--Fuck, I want a cookie.

I realized the magnitude of my problem when my roommate purchased a King Size box of gourmet-chocolate-chip-macadamia cookies and precariously placed them on the shelf next to my Special K Protein Plus.

I generally have decent willpower (except when it comes to my lover, Jack Daniels.) I'm a pescatarian. I don't eat processed or fried foods on a regular basis. I would never BUY a King sized box of goddamn-gourmet-chocolate-chip-macadamia cookies. And I certainly don't eat my roommates food.

But that box of cookies tormented the hell out of me for days.

Until I stumbled in drunk one night and ate three of them, C. Monster style. Nom nom nom. Crumbs on the counter. Nom nom nom. Repeat.

I'm assuming my roommate didn't notice. But what the hell would I say if she brought it up?

"I have this disorder. It runs in my family...Cookie Monster is my long lost brother (from a monster mother)?"

Or simply, "C is for cookie. And cookies (apparently all of them) are for me?"

In any case, my man Cookie is no longer on TV. You may think "The Vegetable Monster" looks like him, but it's an imposter the network hired.

Like me, Cookie is alone in this world. There is no cookie rehab on Sesame Street. And everyone looks the other way once you're a has been. The very people who supported your habit while you were in the limelight, are the ones that will call you a "B-list addict" when the new "talent" arrives.

I feel for my monster. But things aren't much better on my street. No Cookieaholics Anonymous meetings, the last time I checked. I guess I'm just supposed to go nom nom nom-ing my way through life, tempted by every cookie that crosses my path.

And don't give me that bullshit about 100 Calorie Packs, or low fat "cookies." Those are not cookies, damn it! You don't see Cookie Monster busting out a pack of de-cookified Oreos, crumbs a-blazing, do you?

I have no hope, when my higher power can only be found at the bottom of the (real kind of ) cookie jar.

But enough about my debilitating disease. Let's move on to other words that start with C.

This is what my commute home was like today:

Girl #1 on 6 train (accent from some Island, either Long or Staten): ...he's hot but he's rude. I hate when guys use the word "cunt."

Girl #2 on 6 train (yup, definitely Long Island): I HATE the word cunt! It's so massage-on-istic.

Girl #3 on 6 train: I hate cunt too!

Me (about to exit): I LOVE CUNT!

Now, if I wasn't about to exit, I would have explained my "massage-on-istic" love in full detail. Starting with the word, of course, and it's many wonderful applications, like:

1. Your cunt is beautiful.

2. That cunt could kill a man with her cunt. (Ah, that first "cunt" is metonymy, not to be confused with synecdoche. Thanks, high school English.)

3. If I had to listen to those cunts on the 6 train or another minute, my cunt would die a little bit inside.

Perhaps it's not wise that I write this blog under my real name. Meh. Welcome to 2009, you cunts.

XOXO, Hannah Miet

Endnote:

Like A Flower In The Rain by Charles Bukowski

I cut the middle fingernail of the middle finger right hand
real short
and I began rubbing along her cunt
as she sat upright in bed
spreading lotion over her arms
face
and breasts
after bathing.
then she lit a cigarette:
"don't let this put you off,"
an smoked and continued to rub
the lotion on.
I continued to rub the cunt.
"You want an apple?" I asked.
"sure, she said, "you got one?"
but I got to her-
she began to twist
then she rolled on her side,
she was getting wet and open
like a flower in the rain.
then she rolled on her stomach
and her most beautiful ass
looked up at me
and I reached under and got the
cunt again.
she reached around and got my
cock, she rolled and twisted,
I mounted
my face falling into the mass
of red hair that overflowed
from her head
and my flattened cock entered
into the miracle.
later we joked about the lotion
and the cigarette and the apple.
then I went out and got some chicken
and shrimp and french fries and buns
and mashed potatoes and gravy and
cole slaw,and we ate.she told me
how good she felt and I told her
how good I felt and we
ate the chicken and the shrimp and the
french fries and the buns and the
mashed potatoes and the gravy and
the cole slaw too.

Tags: C, Cookies, I, are, cookie, cookies, cookies?, cunts, did, for, More…is, me, mention, monster, nom

C is for Cookie. Among other things.

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