"I can't quit you..."

That's what I whispered lovingly to my Taco Bell nachos last night...and to the double decker taco supreme that preceded that...and to the cool ranch locos taco and soft taco supreme that preceded that...

Taco Bell is my black tar heroin. I can. not. quit. it. But I keep trying only to fall off the wagon within two months of excommunicating it from my diet.

It's just so comforting. But I guess here is the part where I tell you that I am addicted to food. I realized this the other day when I binge ate a Jenny Craig dinner, a countless number of lemonheads, starburst jellybeans, and regular old starbursts, some lemon mousse bars...I could go on, but you don't need to read the list of my caloric indiscretions. You just need to read the part where I tell you that I ate it all because I was mad. And it felt like a hug. All that food felt like an old friend that said, "Come have a cup of tea, a glass of wine, and tell me all about your bad, stressful day. Actually don't tell me because I already know, and I know what you need to fix it."

Incredible. That's the kind of friendship that's built with time. Food and I have a history. And it's not even a complicated history. It's one of love and comfort and pizza.

As of five years ago it became almost exclusively Taco Bell. I was in a committed relationship with the most questionable of the fast food options. And I loved it. I ate it everyday. Every. Day. I still can't believe that I didn't clog all my arteries.

But at the end of all this, at the end of all the times I've tried to break up with Taco Bell, I just can't seem to do it.

And maybe I shouldn't have to.