I have a confession to make.
I am an addict.
No, I’m not addicted to Diet Coke. I can kick that habit at any time. And no, not to masturbation or porn. My penis can’t handle the chafing.
I’m addicted to gum.
I can trace this back to my dislike of bad breath. I’ve always hated talking to people that had bad breath, and I never wanted to be that person, so since I was a kid, I always had a piece of gum in my mouth.
In my teens, my budget was sparse, so gum had to be hoarded. I would buy a pack or two when I went to the grocery store with my mother and chew half-pieces at a time, making sure that each piece lasted forever.
As I got into college and law school, it was simple. I’d just grab a whole box of gum from the rack at the grocery store and that would last me a month or two.
Now, however, it’s a different story. I barely go to the store. We eat out for most of our meals, so our grocery shopping is something that might happen once a month, maybe. This meant that I was making specific trips to Walgreens or Publix just to buy gum.
Yesterday, though, the true nature of my addiction was hammered home. I didn’t wake up shivering having fever dreams about giant pink bubbles eating my soul, no. Nor did I find myself giving a leprotic bum a handjob for a piece of Wrigley’s. I didn’t even find myself selling our TV to the pawn shop so that I could afford the newest flavor of Hubba Bubba.
All I did was look at my receipt for the gum order that I placed.
Is there like a GCA (Gum Chewer’s Anonymous) Meeting around here that I can join?