Little. Chocolate. Different.

There are few things on this mortal plain that my powers of conviction are useless against. Good Mexican food, sex, french fries, pepperoncini peppers, hotdogs, a new videogame, DVDs, chocolate milk -- sure those things are hard to resist, but if called upon, I can muster up the strength needed in each of those situations.

I've heard the siren call of the wanton sea-maiden, the lady in the lake, temptation incarnate. I know it well. She's beautiful and she'll drag you to a gruesome death into the suffering of the briny deep. It's hard, but still, I can resist that.

I cannot however resist little, chocolate, donuts in the work vending machine.

You know the ones. They come in the perfect sleeve of six. Six mini waxy donut coatings leaving chocolate rubbing on the inside of a perfectly transparent cellophane cocoon. Waiting, waiting to trans-mutate into something wonderful inside the warm internals of your husk.

How they got there -- in that machine -- is a mystery. Overnight the travels of a wayward stock-hound found his or her path to the depths of my subconscious. Knowing my every thought. My every desire.

I guess my mistake was walking past the malevolent contraption of self-indulgence in the first place. I should know better. There is nothing in its eternal fire of complex carbohydrates and saturated fat that one -- in his or her darkest hour -- could even rationalize as healthy.

God Damnit!