It all started out innocently. Someone handed me one, said “try it, you’ll like it.” I did, and I did.
There the downward spiral began.
I found myself eating these things, these Altoids, constantly. I always thought it was just because they were tasty and minty. I was blind to myself.
In my desk drawer I have what I call “The Graveyard.” It is a collection of empty Altoid boxes whose contents I have consumed since being at school. There are upwards of 50, and there are some that I simply threw away.
The other day I lost my current tin. I tore my room apart. My best friend observed me. “Andy, you have a problem.”
“I don’t, I don’t!” I screamed at her. Alas, I recognized the bitter truth.
I’m an Altoid addict. I love their peppermint flavor, the way they crunch in my mouth. Quietgirl is surprised when she kisses me and does not taste peppermint. I am an Altoid snob- Peppermint is the one true flavor, and all others are inferior. Deep inside me, I believe this to be true. People who insist otherwise have faced my wrath.
And yet I love them, the cheery red tins. I love the crackle of the paper, the fact that they are originally celebrated and curiously strong.
I have about an 8th of a big tin as I write. Also, yet unwrapped, tempting me with it’s shiny newness, is a collector’s edition tin. It is a thing of beauty- silver and red, with a beautiful embossed peppermint plant.
“Eat one at a time,” I chant to myself. Just one at a time, not 6, 8, 10… these are the numbers I am accustomed to. I try to savor them, fight the urge to just give in and live my life like opiate addicts of old.
If it kills me, I will win this battle.
Curse you, Callard & Bowser. Damn you to the minty depths of Hell.