Dear Barbecue Lays Potato Chip,
Tell me why, after all these years, have you found me again? Now I’m afraid I won’t be able to forget you again for a while.
I have resisted your temptation for a few years now since my boys have become obsessed with you. I have often stared at your bag in the pantry where you live with all of your relative chips. Even though I try to store you out of my sight, I still see you. You have just politely and quietly stared back, almost knowing that you were my forbidden fruit and having mercy on me.
Maybe it was the way that our grocery store has been recently remodeled so beautifully, making that chip aisle damn near impossible not to stare dreamy-eyed down the aisle of shiny bags, with you now perfectly positioned at eye level upon approach. I think I heard harps playing in the distance as I pushed my cart down that aisle the other day.
You made me buy a couple of bags of you for the kids. I didn’t want them to run out, after all. I brought you home, and tried to position you in the pantry so that I couldn’t make eye contact.
But then the other night, as I was perfectly perched with my soft blanket and dimmed lights, ready to watch my trashy Sunday night Housewives TV series (that makes my life look ever so simple, which is a good thing), I heard you calling.
Maybe it was Clone’s fault for being so nice and asking me if I wanted him to get me anything after grinning at the TV screen, knowing how awful the TV show was that I was about to spend an hour with. My household loves to make fun of me for this weekly vice.
Whatever it was, I gave in. I ate way too many of you. So many that I might even be able to forget you for a while since I satisfied my craving so sufficiently. If it weren’t for the orange powdery residue you left under my nails. That makes it harder to forget you.
You were good. I thank you for that.
If I smoked I would have had a cigarette afterwards.
Thank you for the great Lays, my friend.