[Approaches podium, Hi my name is Sam and I’m a sugar addict, etc.]

Well, I knew the day would come. I even cold-bloodedly planned for it in various fantasies, most lately involving peanut-butter fudge.

To take my mind off the impending crisis I went shopping yesterday. I saw many wondrous things, including designer jeans at an early stage of de-evolution

For £240 I’ll be happy to tear you a new one

Creative writing majors have to make a living too

and a jacket so hideous it was surely destined for the emperor’s new closet.

“We have a pair of jeans that would go nicely with this.”

More to the point, I saw things like candy corn with sorbitol, and brownies with pure goodness, and dusty triple-decker fudge at the Winter Wonderland.

Santa throws himself in front of what is presumably a good girl to save her from a ravenous beast

These things I did not buy. What I bought were mince pies for my wife, who treasures them but only if they do not contain glucose-fructose syrup, aka high fructose corn syrup or close enough. GFS-free pies now seem rarer than hen’s teeth.

Mmmmm, teeth. Perhaps the dental hygienist can remove those unsightly stock image agency watermarks

From Wholefoods to home on the train I alternately watched bad sf on my smartyphone, napped fitfully (“Today is a good day to diet” Star Trek addicts meet in the hall on Wednesdays), and dreamt delicious dreams.

After 109 days—satisfyingly over 100, otherwise clunky—it felt time to take the next step: normalcy. [Note to self: this is not normal.] I may be able to survive without sugar, but I cannot thrive. Long lingering looks at forbidden fruit are enervating. Too much hydration is wasted on saliva.

I had a Roots & Wings organic mini mince pie. “10% of profits donated to childrens charities” says the box, but I wasn’t thinking of the children.

Approximately to scale

Today is the first day of the rest of my life.

[Walks out a free man.]

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