It's calling me. It knows my name.

Somebody brought in a box of candy to sell-- March of Dimes or the Red Cross or some charitable thing-- but the important thing is, it's real candy. Twix and Milky Way and such. Not that off-brand chocolate crap Cub Scouts are shoving in your face at the doors of Wal-Mart.

God I want a Twix. It costs a dollar. I could, concievably, get up off my blonde ass, take the elevator ten floors down to the deli, and buy exactly the same thing for about forty cents cheaper, but this procedure would involve, as previously mentioned, getting up off my blonde ass. Not to mention the People Factor: If I buy it downstairs, I'd have to endure thirty, almost forty seconds of human interaction, an exchange that would involve smiling, doing that awkward change-on-top-of-bills-in-your-hand grab thing, and saying thank you.

I could, of course, do the smart thing and just not buy any candy at all.

Right.