Sorry, Myles. In college one of my roomates left a bag of Sour Cream 'n Cheddar Ruffles potato chips out on the coffee table. Our rules were simple: in pantry = sacred. Out on coffee table = Dude! Have some chips, cookies, etc. I took
half of a chip, popped it into my mouth, and once that sucker hit the point of no return realized that was a bad,
bad chip. Rinsed my mouth out, gargled, and told my roomate. He said, "You
ate one of those? I was cleaning out my pantry. That was an open bag of chips that has been in the pantry for two years." I was angry.
If I had known what the next 24 hours were going to be like, I would have killed him. At one point in time I was so exhausted I passed out on my bedroom floor. The last thing I remember was wondering how long would it take before my body was discovered, and how my parents would feel when they found out I died alone in an apartment out of state. I am prone to using hyperbole--it's a family curse--but I am being as literal as I know how when I say that I truly,
literally, did think that moment on my bedroom floor was my last.
I still can't eat Sour Cream 'n Cheddar Ruffles.
Get better soon, sir!

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