Gritsy Gritsy

I have a love/hate relationship with grits.

It's extremely intense and freakishly bipolar.

One day, I will love grits so much that I hold them superior to the air I breathe. The next day, I can't even think of the word or I'll vomit in disgust.

It's like Grits Schizophrenia.

I'll go to the store, buy a family size pack, and bring it home to consume in the most gluttonous, horrendous way you could ever imagine.

Pour a pack in the bowl (usually the cheese or butter kind), add water, and pop it in the microwave.

But, wait! Before I do that, I do something shamefully sinful... I add the biggest whopping scoop of butter you've ever seen into that bowl of unrighteousness. *wails* It's the truth!! I might as well use an ice cream scooper! Even if the pack is butter flavored...it's never enough. I add more...*shivers* So much more....

And I eat that bowl of disgrace. I eat it right up. And I feel no shame. And I don't hate myself after. And I stand up and pronounce that I love grits. I love them more than the air I breathe. And I proclaim that if I could have an IV of grits running into my veins, I'd do it. Because I love grits.

But then something strange happens.

I go to bed and I sleep off the serving of coarsely ground hominy that I just inhaled. I wake up the next day, go make myself some more grits and then I realize something.... I. Hate. Grits.

Seriously, it's just like that. Snap! I'm done. I can't look at them, smell them, or think about them. If someone says "grits" a part of my soul dies and I want to regurgitate the taint that the grits ever left in my body.

I'll go in the living room, plop on the sofa, and say that I don't know what to fix myself for lunch. My roommate will kindly point out that I have a super jumbo family size box of grits in the pantry. "Ew, I don't like grits." She looks at me puzzled and asks, "But didn't you just have all that grits last nig---" 

"Stephanie. I'm going to puke if we keep talking about this."

"....oookay. You feeling all right, Kel? You look a little green..."

"I'm fine...*breaks out into cold sweat* I just can't think of...that food..."

I'll go to the pantry and this guy stares at me with the evilest grin known to mankind.

So then I'm forced to just throw the box away or give it to someone because I can't stand the look he gives me every time I open the cabinet door.

People, I have a problem. A really big problem. A week ago I bought myself a load of grits because I couldn't live a life without them. Today, I rather drink old milk.

By the way, does anyone want my grits?