Kübler-Ross Model

swiggity swooty (I'm coming for that Booty)

Shock & Denial
I blacked out. I reach into the depths of the eggnog yellow bag and inch my fingers deep into the corners, but I’m only met with flaky white dust. As I slowly gain consciousness and realize that there is nothing but scraps, my eyes widen, scrutinizing the nutrition label: Serving Size: 4. 160 calories per serving. Four serving sizes? No fucking way. How did I eat 640 calories in 14 minutes? As I stare past the mocking eye of a cartoon pirate with a blue bandanna, I begin to retrace my steps. 

It’s Wednesday at noon and I am walking back to my dorm after class. Subconsciously, I decide to take the longer route, which allows me to pass by Corcoran Commons, a lower-campus dining hall. Like Pavlov’s dog, two thoughts immediately come to my head: iced coffee and Pirate’s Booty. This snack is neither buried nor lost, but a coveted treasure nonetheless. The bags of Booty rest on a shelf in “On the Fly”, a Boston College convenience store tucked away in the corner of the second floor of Corcoran Commons. The location is a little bit obscure, but upon arrival, I know that I’ve found my treasure. X marks the spot. These glossy bags sit in the front with their chest puffed. Holding the bag nonchalantly, I saunter home as to not let any desperation escape. After all, Pirate’s Booty is my private indulgence. While walking, I meticulously plan my next move: put pajamas on, get in bed, and open the bag of coveted treasure. What happens next is hazy. 

Anger & Bargaining
Reality and pain reemerge. This was an unfair match! The odds were stacked against me. The bag was only half full, no way that could have been four servings! They must’ve dusted the snacks with traces of cocaine…

Depression
How could I succumb to nothing more than some puffed air dusted with ivory-colored cheese? If I can’t exercise self-control against manufactured flavor, how can I be successful in life? Is this an indication of a larger problem? If I used a bowl to portion control, maybe I wouldn’t have eaten the whole bag. If I hadn’t been so engrossed in Westworld, maybe I wouldn’t have eaten the puffs unconsciously and autonomously. 

Acceptance 
Shortly after I dispose of the empty, guilt-ridden bag in the trashcan in the kitchen, my roommate comes home after crew practice. We make quick eye contact, and she finds me sheepishly grinning.  She knows what happened. I tell her that I’ve considered quitting. She knows that I’ve been in this exact place before. I recognize that this is a losing game but I can’t seem to neatly fold the bag and put it away after a meager 28 ounces. Pirate’s Booty is not substitutable. Trust me, I have tried Skinny Pop and the only reason it’s “Skinny” is because it tastes so bland that I stop eating after the first handful. Pop Secret’s buttered popcorn cannot do it justice either. The consistency is neither as airy nor as puffy. And Popcorn Indiana KettleCorn? Two words: too sweet. In these three weak substitutes, I can’t escape getting the kernels stuck in my teeth. My god the kernels, they test my patience. They all fall flat against my bags of cheese-dusted treasure. I’ve accepted my fate. Puffed to perfection and dusted with aged white cheddar, I inevitably relapse, blacking out until the last piece of puff has been consumed.