I swear to god, whoppers will be the bane of my existence. There are about 60 whoppers in each box. Which adds up to a whopping—no pun intended—76 grams of sugar, but I'm going to ignore that fact, I think the measurement of one whopper is more poignant. Here's my gripe with the FDA; they make me do the math of how much is actually in one box. For some reason, they label the nutrition facts by serving size. Who pays attention to that shit? I want to know how much is in one box and allot it myself. Anyways, I've had 8 boxes of whoppers in 2 weeks. Thats 480 fucking whoppers! If I keep up this rate for a month, thats almost 1000 Whoppers per month! 12,000 whoppers per year! 120,000 whoppers in a decade. By the time I'm my parents age, I'm going to have consumed 372,000 Whoppers!
Enough of these outrageous numbers though, think about my shame. For two weeks, almost every other day, except on weekends because they're closed, I've gone and got a box of whoppers from the commissary on the ground floor of my dorm. Every day, the same cute girl is working there. I walk to the back of their tidy selection and dully look at the candy, anxious to take them to the register. Just like last time, there's only one box of whoppers missing: the one I bought a few days ago. The worst part of this is having to face the same girl every time. I can't help but think she's noticed my habits by now. I'm the only one in this dorm who buys any goddamn whoppers! Of all candy, why do I have such an affinity for these? I feel awful when she smiles at me and swipes my card as if I'm doing nothing wrong. Maybe she hasn't recognized my pattern yet. I smile and wish her a good night every time; and as if she didn't just sell them to me, I quickly conceal the whoppers behind the counter and walk back to the elevator, cowering in shame from the eyes of my peers bearing down in judgment.
I remember my first experience with whoppers. I must've been somewhere between 10 or 12 staying with my family in Salt Lake City. My cousin and I were tucked in secret room under the stairwell, maybe planning out our next prank or discussing the nuances of our zombie survival plan. There was a box of stale strawberry whoppers in one of the drawers, leftover from the movie theater. I don't remember what it tasted like or if I enjoyed it, but I remember the concept of strawberry whoppers very vividly. Later that day, my dad, my cousin, and I stopped at a blockbuster beneath the looming shadows of the Wasatch mountain range. I can't remember what exactly the store looked like inside, but the composite image of this visit that my brain has pieced together is a dreamlike flow of feeling dwarfed by the massive, snowy peaks. Then, a hopeful anxiety upon entering the store. I was giddy at the prospect of being able to pick out a movie from the expansive selection; even looking at the men with guns or the women in bikinis on the covers was a treat for me. We selected a horror movie—I don't remember the name, but it scared us and became one of our favorites. Our exited fear only grew as we drove up the dim incline while the sun set on our mountain destination. Here's what I can't tell though: I have a memory of getting more strawberry whoppers in the Blockbuster. I think I fabricated that idea though.
Forget the strawberry whoppers and forget the movie I forgot the name of. I wish I could go back and relive some of this stuff. I love to think of family memories from the perspective of young me. I can literally feel the awe and excitement things as a kid. The lens of nostalgia is a powerful tool of deception, but still, when's the last time I felt anxious excitement about picking a movie up from the rental store—or genuinely felt grateful and content that I got a box of candy. Now, here I am, inundated with movies and whoppers. I'm locked in a state perpetual disappointment and craving for more. More whoppers! Only 480 more to fill my chocolatey, malty, dopamine quota! More, more, more... There are so many choices of things to waste my time with, it's like I don't even see a movie or an episode of a tv show as a treat anymore. They're just waiting behind my computer screen, in gargantuan numbers, ready to distract me from my pathetic existence of reminiscing on the past and waiting for the next big thing to entertain me. It's not the first time I've thought of this, but the box of whoppers sitting on my desk, watching my type, keeps reminding me. The concept of living in the moment is so foreign to the westernized brain. Surely I can't keep treading this same path, I'm sick of these stupid fucking whoppers and everything they stand for.
