I'm one of those delightful people who are against the concept of "guilty pleasures." If you like something that doesn't hurt other people, enjoy it, and don't listen to the jerks who want you to feel bad about things that bring you pleasure, I have been thinking to myself all week. Feeling this way is one of the greatest benefits of being raised without religion.
(For the record, I'm all for feeling guilty about going overboard with your pleasures, because often excess leads to displeasure in the form of tummy aches, insomnia, sore genitals, etc. So yes, I love candy, but also yes, if I eat too much of it (which I will, inevitably) I will feel bad about it.)
Then I discovered that the friend I just visited for a week had a giant bag of pizza rolls in his freezer and didn't make me any the whole time I was there. He didn't even mention that he had them until I was already back home, 1,175 miles away. When I learned of this betrayal, I also learned that my smugness about guilty pleasures was all a lie.
Pizza rolls are disgusting. I know that with every fiber of my being. They are molten balls of pizzaishness, without a particularly good flavor or texture or any sort of health benefits. And yet, just the sound of the words pizza rolls makes me salivate. What is wrong with me? What is wrong with my body? Who is the devil that created pizza rolls?
How long will I be able to resist the urge to buy a giant bag of pizza rolls? How long before I fill myself with the pain of eating pizza rolls? Not long enough. Not long enough.