I tried to give up sugar today.
But I didn’t.
I tried.
I tried real hard.
It didn’t work.
The cookie won.
I put up a good fight.
But the cookie won.
It was oatmeal. With big raisins.
Why did it win? Because it’s called “cookie” and not rutabaga.
I’m weak. The cookie was strong.
Why should I even give up sugar?
Because I should. Every healthy choice I make will help me live another 50 years.
But I can’t live the next 50 years without sugar.
I’m weak and I need my treats. Like some spoiled cat in a milk chocolate mansion.
And I don’t want no sugar-free treats. They have artificial sugar with weird names, like sucralose and maltitol. And maltodextrin. What the hell is a “maltodextrin”?
I feel like I’m eating a science experiment.
And artificial sweetener causes cancer in lab rats. I read it on the internet. Is it true? I don’t know. I read it on the internet. You tell me.
I bought a lab rat to find out, but then I felt bad. I don’t want my lab rat getting cancer. I named my lab rat, "Freddie." He’s from Jersey. Or New York. I can’t tell. Either way, he sounds like Robert DeNiro.
And on Thursdays he's gluten-free and pure keto.
Anyway, I don’t want Freddie getting cancer.
We’ve bonded now over real oatmeal cookies with real sugar. I love him. I can’t give him maltitol-laced cake. I’m no rat killer.
I tried to eat artificial sweetener. But whenever I have it, I feel drugged. I feel foggy.
Can't think.
Can't remember my name.
I just want to curl up in a sugar-free ball and go to sleep.
It’s the artificial sweetener. I’ll stick to sugar.
But no sugar before bedtime. I have weird sugar dreams.
Last night I ate a pint of ice cream and I dreamed about three snow leopards eating ice cream on a sandy beach. And they wouldn't share.
I tried to get one of the snow leopards to give me some. His name was Andy. I said, “Hey Andy, can I have some of your ice cream?” He just snarled, waved a paw at me and said, “Back off buddy. Get yer own chocolate fudge swirl.”
So what should I do? I want cookies with real sugar. I don’t want maltitol-laced cake.
And Freddie doesn’t either…




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