Moist Cravings

I thought I'd be traveling alone. After a week and a half of not writing I feared my new found interest would end up much like all my previous interests, half finished.

I could hear my mother's words reverberating in my head when I told her I wanted to quit band, and then quit football, and then karate. "You always leave things half done when you are not happy or get bored. How do you expect to get better if you are always quitting?"

But this was different. It just disappeared. It would now just be a short topic of conversation to impress my listeners.

I had finished my ginger chicken and rice. Not bad. A little bland, but then again I heard that flying thirty-thousand miles in the air distorted your taste buds, so it didn't matter. Time for dessert. (I always remember how to write dessert and not desert. Two S's 'cause you always want seconds.) Oatmeal Chewie? 0g trans fat. Hmm, sounds healthy. Good, because I had McDonald's a few hours earlier in Terminal 1 at O' Hare and Mexican the night before. Though the Mexican ran straight through, I still hadn't worked out in two days. And it didn't look like I would today either on this 15 hour flight. Well, I did avoid the tread-walks, escalators, and elevators. That's gotta count for something. Now I'm pestering the stewardess...ahem, "flight attendant" for water every five minutes to relinquish my guilt. "Sparkling, please."

Metro. Did I pack my balls in my check-in or carry-on? Fuck, I left them on the nightstand.

I open this "Oatmeal Chewie". Soft. Slightly sticky. A little moist. Oatmeal flakes crumble out the wrapper as I slide it through as to not to break its delicacy. I take a bite, reading the tag line on the front of the wrapper: "The little package with the BIG taste." Cute. The first bite is now masticated and before I could decipher each ingredient, the familiar taste of sugary raisins floods my jowls. My tongue is making love to the morsels caressing against my cheek.

Holy fucking shit! This is really fucking good! BIG taste indeed.

I only take one more bite before devouring the mini, bite-sized treat. I scrape the remnants of this yummy goodness with the tip of my tongue, hoping to experience that alimentary ecstasy again. I flip the wrapper seeking what it was that has awaken more than my appetite.
And there it was. My muse. I knew you'd come back. I just knew it. I missed you. Don't you ever do that to me again, though I know you will. I'd like to think that my muse is out fetching me inspiration instead of being that desire I crave, slutting itself to others to fulfill their hunger. Much like my craving for more of this moist, little putana of a snack. Fuck it, I gotta write this down.