Just Shoot for the Stars



Do you ever finish up a meal, think to yourself that you may never want to eat again, and then suddenly something random like S’mores pops into your head?  'Mmmm S’mores', something very base within you will say. Must. Have. This idea will be very powerful. So powerful in fact that you are torn between two impulses:  1) There are rice cakes, carob chips and tofu in the fridge – this is the closest thing you have to the makings of a S’more, BUT you consider it however briefly. 2) If it happens to be 3:00 a.m., the fact that you COULD plow the drive, and drive your car through a blizzard to go fetch the actual ingredients also enters your mind. If you have some self restraint you might satisfy yourself with googling different S’more recipes and wait. The idea does not go away though, oh no, it does not. It lingers in your head like that song by Maroon 5 that will take brain surgery to get out. (Cause two hours of White Stripes on full blast, until you killed your last speaker didn’t wipe it, and you know it is there ‘til your dying day with the moves like Jagger.) Just like the craving for S’mores, it isn’t going anywhere.

After years of intensive scientific research I’ve discovered the root cause of invasive and random junk cravings. (By scientific I mean the idea drifted through The Glitter Globe once, it was so sparkly I grabbed it and held on.)  Those wayward desires that you fight to master, are actually the demands of a desperate and dying fat cell. Somewhere in my body at this very moment is a latent fat cell that is still constructed of marshmallow, graham cracker, and Hershey bar. Even if it hasn’t been fed since I was a Girl Scout that is irrelevant. Fat cells don’t have much on their mind beyond what created them. They lurk inside you thinking about the day they were born, “Oooooh, Baby, marshmallow-marshmallow-marshmallow….”  You get the idea. If all they could do was dream, there would be no need for fat pants. Problem is they slipped your blood some sugar during the whole birthday celebration years ago. Yes, your blood made a deal with the devil that you are forever paying for.

The nanosecond a fat cell feels in danger of shrinking, it calls in that old favor. “Take a message to the brain STAT. YOU OWE ME.”  The messages we are all familiar with. (Pizza-Pizza-Pizza. Butter-Butter-Butter. Sugar-Sugar-Sugar.)  But knowledge is power. There is hope. The cycle can be interrupted. Now there are two ways to halt the self-destruct sequence. I wish it were as simple as sunlight and garlic, but it isn’t. 1) Weaken the witching fat cell with activity. I suggest cranking up your tunes and jumping on the bed for a bit (for the love of light please use caution when choosing your music). This causes the fat cell to faint. 2) Attempt to kill the fat cell. This is a complicated procedure involving avoiding every ingredient in whatever that dude is pestering you for. If done properly, the fat cell will shut up in terror. All the other fat cells in the body are telling him to SHUT IT, because now they’re all losing territory. Peer pressure works. Warning:  Fat cells never completely die, they just go dormant. Be sure to keep your iPod on stun and use caution obeying the voices.  Words to live by there.