. . . I'm lying on the tile floor with a spoon dangling from my chocolate smeared mouth. With my finger I am able to write the words "MORE CHOCOLATE!" . . . in spilled sugar.
Every pan is running over with peanut-butter fudge, raspberry fudge,
Pistachio Swirl Fudge, Rocky Road Fudge . . . and walnut supreme White Chocolate Fudge.
It bubbles on the stove, it hardens in the refrigerator . . . I struggle to get to my feet, slipping and sliding in the sweet cream butter and pure vanilla that never quite made it into the pots . . .
My life is rushing before my glaring eyes . . . as I listen to that heavenly sound . . . blub! Blubblub! Blub!
I happened to catch a glimpse of myself in the smeared microwave oven door -- powdered sugar in my hair. How could I have sunk so low? Don't I have any self-control? NO!
When the paramedics arrived, they found me -- wearing a chocolate stained T-shirt emblazoned with the words -- CHOCOLATE RULES! -- perched on the kitchen island, surrounded by 12 pots of assorted fudge.
Then, they brought in my devastated husband, who pleaded with me . . . "Drop it, honey! Put down the spoon! Look at yourself!"
It's not a pretty story, I know. But perhaps it will help someone out there to see where this obsession can lead. . . .
LOLOLOLOLOLOL
Text Copyright © 2001-2003
In the background, the television broadcasts astonishing news! Wall Street is Wild! . . . Hershey is going through the roof! Buy! Buy! . . . Nestle is not far behind! Under piles of chocolate wrappers, I find my phone. It's drizzled with caramel . . . in my state of sugar ecstasy , accidentally, I speed dial 911.
. . . unmistakably bubbling fudge
(there's no sound in the world quite like it.)
My stretch pants have reached their limit.
I stagger to the treadmill, sweep away the cobwebs - it squeaks as it starts up . . . okay, I'll walk it off! But I find it hard to stay on the treadmill, my hands still covered in butter from rolling those fudge snowballs.
Quickly, my mind races as I calculate . . . how long do I have to walk on this treadmill to burn up 1,500 Calories? 2 days!
At fifty-two miles per hour!
I can do it! 
Calls of, "Give it up, lady! This little escapade is over!" carried no weight (as I had it all) . . . I refused to budge.
"It's mine!" I called. "All of it!"
In desperation, they brought in an experienced police negotiator -- no use. He might be able to talk a desperate woman down off a ledge -- but away from her fudge -- I think not!
Ashamed? Not really. But, I could see where there might be a 'tiny' problem. . . .
Taking one last lick of the large wooden spoon, I savored the taste of the 'demon chocolate' as I gave up the pots -- one by one.
Oh, I've gotta run -- they're coming to take me
for a little walk today.
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