Beware: here follows a true tale, a tale of such woe, that I hesitiate to recount it.
I had made a trip to Costco and among the items I bought were some cookies. I got them home, and found them to be completely inferior. The white chocolate tasted strange, and the chocalate chip cookies had twice the richness and half the taste of a *real* cookie.
By *real* cookie I mean those made by the Original Cookie company, a store in the mall nearest my house.
Disgusted by the ersatz cookies from Costco, I made a special trip to the mall, for the express purpose of getting a pound and a half of bite-sized chocolate chip cookies. (Buy one pound, get 1/2 pound free.)
Since I work out of my home, you can imagine that leaving my domicile at all takes great incentive.
Up I walked to the Original Cookie counter, standing in line. I looked down at their wares. People in the way, I couldn't quite see if they were out of-- wait! What are these strange things they're selling? THOSE AREN'T ORIGINAL COOKIES!
I backed up and looked at the sign. The vast dread that descended on me will haunt me forever. The Original Cookie was gone. Gone! In its place was a sign etched onto my cerebrum in pain: Mrs. Fields.
Mrs. Fields, in her demon-like lust for power, had overthrown the Original Cookie in order to sell her inferior products, which I only label cookies in an accomodative sense. Table coasters flavoured like sour milk is a more apt description.
In a depression unfelt in many a year, with head held low, I turned and walked away. An old friend, gone forever. A piece of my childhood ripped away. How many times as a child did I entreat my mother to purchase a giant Chocolate Chip or Sugar Butter cookie?
On the drive home, the world had seemed to lose its colour somehow. Greyness abounded everywhere. My depression turned to anger. Anger against Mrs. Fields and her hordes. I became enraged in a fury of bloodlust, as I envisioned cracking her head open with one of her own stale pecan cookies.
Into my home I trudged, seeking solace from my family. Ha! As if anyone could understand. All cookies, all cookies everywhere, that I've ever eaten in my whole life, no matter how good, were pale imitations of the Original Cookie.
"Maybe you'll find some other cookies you like" I heard. I whirled around. Containing my rage, I managed to articulate: "Suppose every copy of Gone with the Wind was destroyed, every copy everywhere. But we still have the script, we can film a new version!" My point was acknowledged, and no more attempts to comfort me were made.
Now I'm racked with guilt. How long since the Original Cookie was murdered? And I wasn't there. Too busy with work, with my own problems, to visit and partake of her offerings. I should have been there, in the last days. I should have been there.
The world is a much smaller place today.