Chocolate

Everyone has an Achilles heel. Mine is chocolate.

Good chocolate, to me, is like poetry in edible form. It sings in the mouth and dances in the heart. If I could take the satisfaction of finishing a good book, the beauty of watching an ocean sunset and the nerve-tingling excitement of attending a live concert, and whip them up in a big bowl, I doubt I'd get anything that looked or smelled or tasted even half as good as chocolate.

Basically, I like it a lot.

And like anyone with a weakness, I've always hated the fact that people know about it. When I was a child, they would try to use it as a comforter. I'd get all upset about something, and the response would be Cheer up. Have a chocolate.

Naturally, that would annoy me.

This is a serious problem, I'd say (or would have done, were it not for the fact that getting upset completely destroys my ability to communicate). It is not to be trivialised with your puny offering of cocoa-based confectionery.

But as I sat there in a cloud of frustration and general misunderstoodness, the thought of chocolate would gradually loom larger and larger in my mind. And as a result, the problem would shrink. Faced with the prospect of the good stuff, it would assume less and less epic proportions until, quite soon, I'd forgotten what the fuss was about. I'd eat the chocolate, even though part of me despised myself for giving in to it, and all would be well.

Now I'm on the downward slope to 30, I'm slightly less easy to cheer up with chocolate. Yet despite that, if I'm feeling particularly sad or frustrated, it's usually my old friend cocoa that I turn to. Other people may have cigarettes or alcohol or prescription pills. I have a giant bar of Galaxy.

So, now you know my secret. If you're a supervillain and I'm all that stands between you and world domination, just offer me chocolate. I'll be like putty in your hands.

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