I'm Roz, and this is my relaxed space. It's about fun, good conversation and — well yes — good conversation. Pull up a well-padded armchair and help yourself to something to drink. You'll find cheese and crackers on the sideboard. What's new with you?
If you're looking for things in a more serious or spiritual vein, you can check out Exultet where I write that sort of thing.
My son has always been a talented writer - at least since he learned to type like the wind and so keep his fingers on the same page as his quick mind. This piece just resurfaced after being hidden on a hard drive somewhere for about 10 years. It was for a satire assignment in high school English, and I have a suspicion he hammered it out in about 20 minutes. All rights are absolutely reserved. Hear that, everyone? Quote with attribution only because, well, look at the title of this post.
I'm sorry, I just have to get this off my chest. I'm 28, male, white, blond, and employed in a marketing firm. I enjoy regular trips to the gym and I have a beautiful fiance. I'm a registered democrat, and I live in a suburb of Chicago. You'd think that I'm normal, right? Wrong. I have a disease. I'm addicted to toast. I'm a toastaholic.
I'm not proud of it. I've been trying to shake it for three years now, without success. It's tearing me apart. It's already cost me my relationship with my family and several good friends, and I fear that it could become worse. Toast rules my life with an iron fist. It dictates my daily routine, where I work, the friends I keep, and even how I decorate my home and budget my money. I own 23 two-slice toasters, 21 four-slice toasters, 7 8-slice toasters, and 16 toaster ovens. Three bread company delivery trucks make large shipments to my home every week, and I subscribe to nine toast magazines, ranging from the culinary to the pornographic.
It started mildly at first. At fifteen I was at a friend's house and he offered me some cinnamon toast. Intrigued, I accepted. His recipe was to apply butter to well browned toast and add healthy amount of cinnamon-sugar to it. I tasted some, liked it, and had more. Soon it was all I would eat at home. Soon, eating toast wasn't enough, and I bought a catalogue of the Benniman's Toaster Lineup from 1985 and hid it under my mattress. Soon I was stashing bread loaves in my closet and two toasters I had bought with my own hard earned lawn mowing money behind my dresser. My parents were never the wiser.
It all led to my difficult departure from home. We were eating dinner, and I, paranoid though I was, was having toast, with jam on it. My father grew tired of watching me use all the jam and butter, and said that I was eating too much toast. Even then, I was defensive about my habit, and so I snapped back that he was being a prick, and things went from there. I stormed upstairs, defiantly packed a week's worth of clothes and all five toasters that I had at the time into a suitcase, and stomped out of the house. I haven't talked to my family since.
I'm not merely content to eat toast, however. I need to be in contact with it 24 hours a day. At work, my computer's background is pictures of toast, and I have many pinup posters of toast in seductive poses around my cubicle. I have three toasters on my desk, and even if I'm too full to eat toast, I'll pop some so that I can caress and nuzzle it. At home, when I've eaten my fill of toast, I'll open up the current issues of HotToast! Magazine and leer at the Toastmate of the month. The centerfold toast pictures are legendary among toast lovers, and many good brands of bread got their start in it.
When I go shopping, I have to be careful to avoid appliance stores, because I inevitably spend three hours in the toaster aisle staring at toasters. I've had several one night stands with toasters in this fashion, and on rare occasion I've been unable to return the toaster and been stuck with it.
I belong to a network of toast lovers that has its own pornographic toast magazine and a regular newsletter. Our magazine is equal opportunity, we show all races of toast. Whole-wheat, white, rye, whatever, it's all in there in seductive positions with shiny, well endowed toasters. We even started a toast sex hotline 1-900 number, where you could call up and hear toast popping. However, other than the enthusiastic participation of members like myself, it folded after several months.
I am writing this to bring attention to what is becoming a nation-wide problem. People that may look normal to you at the mall or at work may go home and be toast addicts. This is happening to me and many others, and I encourage parents to educate their kids to prevent it from happening to them. Thank you for taking the time to read this.
Name:: Roz Hometown::Ann Arbor, MI
Mother of several, grandmother of a couple, wife to one very good man. My epitaph will probably read, "Well, you just never know." Life is good, but it takes unexpected turns. Good thing I like surprises.