Letter to the Sanitorium Headmaster by: Crude la Glutton

Don't even think about taking my rum balls away from me.

I'm aware this is rehab, but you can't fool me into thinking I'll be better off without succulent chocolates full of liqueur. Some say I'm a chocoholic; some say I'm an alcoholic. I say, who cares when you have both in your mouth? I admit it's limited my nightlife a bit, limiting me to bars that have candy machines. I found out the hard way that keeping bonbons in my purse does not mesh with keeping it close to my sweaty dancing body. They say pop is bad when it's flat; I similarly say that gin, rum, or brandy are not themselves without a mouthful of truffles, a bazillion lemon, orange, banana candies, or a turkish delight smothered in honey.

Some say this is a recipe for diabetes. I say, this is better than diabetes. It's enjoying the sweet and pungeant in life, a combination as soothing as hairspray. My skin has become silkily transparent. It could be the beginning of a new beauty and health care fad. You nay-sayers have jinxed everything I believe in.

I know what well-being is. It's not just living to 100. It's also sitting on your divan every night filling your tummy with chocolate barrels of joy, just like all the billions of barrels of oil we use in this heaven which is life on earth.

If life is not a heaven to you, perhaps you need to be enlightened and come for dinner in what I like to call my prison cell. You may choose to call it a rehabilitation room, a hideously non-brown place with oranges and zucchini and carrots gaping at me from the ledge. You've got to be joking about the power of this place having brought me out of a sugar-induced coma. There is no way I would wake up to this. I cannot believe you. Perhaps if you let me have some more of that cherry cough medicine I'll let you spew another round of jargon. Guess what? I won't be listening. I've gained an ability to go deaf whenever I please. It's called saving the leftovers where no one can find them.

Compared to sugar, that Splenda shit is like wind power to dependable crude. Now if you don't offer me a plate of turtles with a side of scotch, I'm going to call my friend who happens to be a model and she'll tell you what you need to hear: gorging trumps starving. Isn't that enough?