"My name is Molly, and I'm addicted to Spray Butter." While I wait for the response of those two simple words to resonate through my body, I look around only to find my pug dog sawin' logs on the couch. All I want to hear are those ominous chant-like words from the other Spray Butter freaks, "Hi, Molly." But nothing, just Dr. Phil and the *dings* from the washing machine. I should get the laundry but the pull of my beautiful blue and sunny yellow Spray Butter container keeps me idle. I'm already thinking about how I can incorporate my Spray Butter into my lunch: a tuna sandwich, toasted, with a hint of sweet pickle, sprayed with my Parkay buttery goodness. Or maybe a simple bowl of popcorn. I'll eat popcorn anytime of the day just to get my *spritz, spritz* fix. Perhaps it's steamed broccoli topped with parmesan cheese and my fake butter! All the taste without all the CALORIES! I don't even know what real butter tastes like anymore. I don't even care that I spray chemicals and plastics all over my cinnamon oatmeal or my turkey wraps. My "friends" try and tell me my veins are clogging up with polyurethane, or they're noticing a bald spot due to lack of blood flow to the back of my head but the power of the plasticy, butter goodness hears nothing of this.
This is my vice. Yeah, so maybe in 30 years my doctor will tell me the third arm that's growing out of my neck was caused by my Parkay friend but for now, it's hold is too strong. And I'm not ready to say good-bye.
Okay, I think it's time for a graham cracker and Spray Butter snack. Later.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment