Monday, October 23, 2006

The Conspiracy

I've never been much of a conspiracy theorist, but I have begun to feel an inkling of a conspiracy plot against yours truly.

The conspirators are many, the deed, atrocious, for they wish to drive me to inescapable lunacy by denying me one of my most desired and necessary substances.

When the leaves turn red and gold, the air turns crisp and clean and the grass hiberates, I need, yes, need, not just want, hot chocolate. I must have a mug of the frothy, thick, sweet stuff in my car for every trip. I feel a bit discombobulated without it there, the dark, creamy aroma filling my car and my nose, it's presence soothing.

For the past week nearly every gas station I've stopped in for a hot chocolate refill has had a small, penned note stuck to the cocoa machines "Sorry. Out of Order."

OUT OF ORDER?! How can every hot chocolate dispenser in the freakin' city be OUT OF ORDER? Is there a shortage of chocolate and someone forgot to tell me? Has there been a run on hot chocolate and I somehow failed to receive the memo? What the hell?

I feel akin to a drug addict seeking a fix. I wander, wide-eyed, lost and blabbering like a fool from gas station to gas station, rattling my empty steel coffee mug against the worm metal door handles of each station like an incarcerated felon willing to trade a month's worth of toilet paper for one lousy mug of hot chocolate. I accost a clerk, accusing him of hoarding the hot chocolate and I see his fingers reach for the panic button at my unkempt appearance and wild-eyed look.

Solid chocolate just won't do. I wonder if I could satisfy my crave if I filled my mug with creamer and stirred in a crumbled Hershey's bar. Then I remember: My mug is steel, I would never be able to warm it properly in a nacho cheese covered gas station microwave. I slip deeper into this hot chocolate-deprived depression and curse the chocolate gods and their minions for torturing me like an Abu Ghraib detainee.

At each new stop I am deprived of the one thing that has become more than just a quest for hot chocolate. It has become a mission and I'm failing quite miserably.

Finally, after spending more in gas than I would have for a pound of Godiva's finest dark chocolate, I settle for a cafe' mocha. A lousy, bitter-tasting, slightly burnt smelling cafe' mocha. No, it's not the same as a steaming mug of cocoa, not even close, but, it will do. For now.

It's a conspiracy, I tell ya, and someone is laughing his ass off at my desperate plight for one. lousy. mug. of. hot. chocolate.

What the hell is it about gas station hot chocolate that makes it so craveable anyway?

1 comment:

karla said...

I can't stand to see you jonesing like this. I'm on my way over with a mug of hot chocolatey goodness.