Addicted

Raisin Cain

Addicted

I'm confused today. You see, I think that I must have an addictive personality.

No, it's not drugs to which I am addicted, not gambling, not the evil alcohol, not sex (I wish), not Jesus, no, none of the usual suspects.

The truth of the matter is that I am addicted to butter tarts.

Over the course of my life, I can't even imagine how many butter tarts have slipped through my lips, and now I fear they have become my obsession

I find myself spending my days drifting through the hours in a sea of sweet sultana surrender. Instead of making sense, I spend my time in a world of sticky nonsense, where I make up silly little poems like:

It was the butter tart
That broke my heart
And left me all alone.

I have to stop. I have to save myself from a life of bad poetry.

My urges sometimes get the best of me. Some days, I know that there are butter tarts aplenty out there for me to scoop up in my shopping cart and bring home. I could tumble into bed and gorge myself on that raisin and sticky sweet concoction so neatly whipped in its little pastry boat. And, sure, I would end up crashing from the sugar eventually and fall asleep amidst a wasteland of miniature tin pie plates and reruns of CSI. But I can't. I can't. You see, I'd just wake up to a crusty throat and a gooey raisin stuck in one of my back molars, and the first thing I would do is write yet another silly poem:

Love me with your shirt unbuttoned there
I want to run my lips across your body bare
I want to feel your hips rise up in a shudder
When you become my tart and I become your butter.

See????

Butter tarts are destroying my poetry, my imagination, my creative soul. Butter tarts are infecting my heart.

Such thoughts, such weird and crazy thoughts. All I want is my old life back, but instead, I find my personality splitting like the dead ends of a bad 80's hairstyle. It' so bad that I even remember sending different parts of me out to complete different tasks. One goes to the gym, one goes to the Library, and then the really bad one heads off to the grocery store. What for? Butter tarts, of course. Boxes and boxes of butter tarts. Uh-oh, here we go again ....

If you need me baby, just go to where the road starts,
You don't need no GPS, no fancy maps, no elaborate charts,
Just follow the trail of crumbs that have dripped from my butter tarts.

Arrghhh ... I'm drowning in glucose.

So if I'm not around for a day or maybe two,
Don't fret, there's nothing wrong and nothing you can do,
For as sure as the sky is green and apples are blue,
My life is stuck in a rut of butter tart goo.