I watch what I eat. I see all kinds of nasty things pass by -- cookies, donuts, pecan pie. My sweet tooth will someday retire to a glass case inside the Smithsonian. My doctor -- Mike -- thinks I'm headed for diabetes.

"It's only a matter of time," he said, checking his watch as if he meant seconds.

Dr. Mike suggested that I eat fruit, but fruit only angers my need for chocolate. After some tense negotiation, we agreed that I would eat sweets only twice a month, two days marked with giant red lollipops on my calendar.

When Sweets Day rolls around, I act a little strange. Werewolf strange. I catalogue all of my favorite sweets, then go from bakery to market to deli buying them up. By the time I get home, my plate is so packed that no human could take it.

But I try.

I sit down with my guests -- Little Debbie, Mrs. Fields, Ben and Jerry -- and together we straddle the stars. When I've eaten so much that I start to feel queasy, I just gobble faster to sneak it past my brain. One day the doctor will find me in a diabetic coma and have no choice but to end my life by shouting, "Hey! Kool-Aid!"

Finally, I push the plate away and stare into the long dark night of my soul.

Maybe it's human nature to obsess. Somewhere in the distance a scientist is logging it on her clipboard: The rats choose chocolate over vegetables nine times out of ten, but they always feel guilty about it later.

Dr. Mike is still peddling fruit, but he doesn't understand the blood-bending bliss of eating your 16th Reese's Peanut Butter Cup, sick but not sick enough. Never sick enough.