Hi, Sugar here. I need to get a few things off of my chest.
Hi, Sugar here. I need to get a few things off of my chest. You’ve seen the reports by now. Yes, there are dangers of being associated with me. Yes, I tried to put the blame on my counterpart, Fat. I know it looks bad. I won’t try to beat around the bush. I did it, I paid off a handful of scientists in the 60s to demonize saturated fats. Instead of me.
I’m not proud of myself.
Thanks to a few carefully curated mid-century medical journals, Fat got blamed for expanding waistlines and shrinking human lifespans. I got off scot-free, filling children’s bellies with Pixie Stix and Ring Pops for years to come. But now. Now it’s come to a head. The media has gotten a hold of this so-called scandal, and you think it’s reasonable to accuse me for all of your life’s ills. You’ve blamed me for everything, from muffin tops to the delay in Game of Thrones season 8.
I can see that you’re mad. And I totally understand. I haven’t been totally honest. But I’m trying to be the bigger molecular compound here.
So, let’s do this. Sigh. Yes. I do contribute to Type 2 diabetes, childhood obesity, heart disease, and unreasonable, squirrel-like manic sugar highs. Sure, my intake is precisely correlated with an early death. But come on, let’s step back for a moment. No one is perfect. I mean, even kale has toxins in large quantities. Stupid kale. That asshole is the worst kind of righteous.
Anyways, I’ve made some mistakes. I hid my transgressions for a few…decades. But just think of all the good times we’ve had. Who was there when your fifth grade t-ball team won the championships? Did you have a salad? NO! Your whole damn team got Dairy Queen soft-serve, with a bright red strawberry wax dip. Who was the one that got you through the Bobby Thompson break-up of 1996? Was it meatloaf? Was it French fries? Ok, those guys helped a little. But mostly it was just you and me and a pan full of gooey brownies. THAT’S how you coped. You devoured me in obscene quantities, until you passed out to dream blissfully of Bobby being attacked by sentient baked goods.
And don’t forget, Valentine’s Day without me is about as fun as Arbor Day in Antarctica. Oh, and hey: I AM THE HERO WHO PROPELLED CUPCAKES TO BEYONCE-LEVEL POPULARITY FOR A GODDAMN DECADE.
You know I make you feel good, babe. You can’t quit me. Remember the last time you tried to leave me, for that ridiculous Paleo Diet? HOW HAPPY WERE YOU THEN? I sure remember the therapy bills. It ended in such a humiliating way for you — you came crying back with a tear-stained face and a mouthful of overpriced cardamom donuts. I complete you. I am literally the icing on your cake.
Sorry, I’m still just a little defensive but I’m working on that. We’re going to get through this. I now know that I can’t blame Fat anymore. So I’m just going to be myself, Mr. Unapologetic Sucrose.
It’s going to be a new era, babe. And I want you to be right there with me. I want to massage your esophagus, roll around inside your small intestine, and create beautiful, crystallized blockades in your arteries. You’ll be so sugarfied that you’ll piss lemon curd.
Yes, you may be dead before you hit your social security payout, but just think about how happy you’ll be! And then when you inevitably leave this earth at a premature age, we can live out the afterlife together, snorting crushed rock candy on marshmallow clouds. I love you, sweetheart.
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