When the Clock Strikes Nine, The Hungry Will Dine

I’m innocently lounging around on my couch. The TV is occasionally tuned in to something on TLC. Perhaps I’m in the midst of writing a blog. I could be knee deep in an Agatha Christie mystery. It may even be the case that I’m taking a moment to rest my eyes.

And then it happens.

cheesecake o'clock

The clock strikes nine.

In a zombie-like trance I shuffle into the kitchen. My books and comfy couch forgotten, I open the food pantry door with a stealth I didn’t know I could possess. The crickets silence. The lights dim. A sudden glimpse of my cat’s tail darting around the corner hints at the terror that will soon follow.

My intense stare falls upon the food.

And then it happens.

The ravenous beast lurking somewhere in the depths of my belly comes alive and transforms this carrot and hummus munching day-goer into an ice-cream and candy creature of the night. Popsicles, popcorn, Pop Tarts, nothing will survive as I conquer the kitchen and mark what is rightfully mine.

Actual photo representation of my transformation.

Actual photo representation of my transformation.

And then it happens.

cat in food bowl

As if waking up from a deep sleep, I truly open my eyes to a scene of utter carnage and destruction. Wrappers litter the counter space as the trashcan overflows with bags of chips so empty that not even a crumb remains.

How could this have happened again?

Who could ever tame the savage beast?

Why do we keep buying deliciously creamy and tempting jars of peanut butter in the house?!