I was reaching for the sweet nectar of life (another shot of caffeine please), when something gave me pause. It was my stomach. My stomach was telling me that it wanted something to eat – to ease the strain of another caffeine infusion. So I went into my desk drawer, to root through my personal cache wholesome snacks. Ah, but sitting right there next to my crackers was the initial source of my trepidation: two stray quarters. Fifty cents won’t buy you a lot these days, but it will buy you something more tempting to your palate than crackers. It took all of three seconds to weigh my choices.

I saw a Baby Ruth bar in the snack machine the other day.

Without conscious thought I found myself walking to the break room. Just like that, I was on my way to milk chocolate, creamy nougat, rich caramel, crunchy peanut, finger licking bliss.

And then it happened again.

Sitting there next to the snack machine, perched confidently on the break room table, sat a collection of Dunkin’ Doughnut’s finest. I looked at my palm, at the two quarters resting there and thought about what they represented. I looked back at the table, at the doughnuts looking so glazed – so fresh – so undeniably tasty. What do I choose? How can this be happening to me? What would Richard Simmons do?

And then it hit me. Where’s the fun in being an American pig if I can’t have both? After all, being an American pig means not having to choose, right? So I had my doughnut and ate my Baby Ruth too. My guilty pleasures safely packed away, and my place in the world once again secure, I was ready to go forth and produce (I am at work, after all).