Snack.

Intellectually, I knew the brownie was not a good idea. First, because it was a vending machine brownie and second, because I am an increasingly chubby guy with no self-control in the food department. But brownies are my kryptonite and I am a semi-happily suicidal Superman when it comes to them.

I prefer my own, of course, because I make them with orange extract, habanero pepper sauce and cayenne powder. It is impractical, however, to try to whip up a batch of said brownies in the editorial offices of a catalog company. Thus, my addiction costs me $1.35 and a small sliver of pride.

In the vending machine, the brownie is number 20. I slid in my two dollars. I pressed the numbers--3-0.

The realization struck too late and in a flash of regret and terror I watched a 90-cent Fiber One granola bar being shoved off its perch to land with a thunk at the bottom of the vending machine.

The brownie is number 20. Two-zero. I slid in my two dollars. I pressed the numbers.

Another Fiber One bar glided forward. No! I was sure I pressed 2-0! Lying sonofabitchin' machine!

The sugar lull was clearly getting the best of me. I stepped back. Took a breath. What I did not need at the moment was a machine dictating my snack needs and getting snarky about my lack of dietary fiber. I will have you know,I wanted to tell it, that I consider Metamucil to be a recreational drug.

Two. Zero. Simple.

I slid in my first dollar. Then my second.

The machine spit it out.

Okay--bad dollar. It happens. I had another in my pocket. I slid it in.

The machine spit it out.

This is the juncture at which a normal person might think, Hmm...perhaps the universe is telling me something. Could it be I am not choosing wisely due to my hunger? I should take this moment to consider the many healthier options currently available to me, such as trail mix.

I, on the other hand, was thinking, I will drive my forehead through this Lexan window if that's what it takes to get that brownie, and then I will disembowel this heathen machine, kill its family and burn its village to the ground.

Me with low blood sugar has never been a pretty sight. Nor one that involves any kind of rational thought.

The machine sensed it was in danger. It swallowed my dollar. Carefully, watching my finger all the way, I pressed.

Two.

Zero.

Brownie.

I wish I could tell you it was worth it. It was a vending machine brownie and I was a sugar-fix whore. I settled, even when the machine was telling me otherwise.

On the upside, I've got two Fiber One bars for a snack tomorrow.