I'm ashamed. I'm embarrassed. I've been suckered in and now there's no escape. I find myself acting in ways deeply incongruous with my upbringing and personal life philosophy, and there's nothing I can do about it. I partly blame this damn city, for casting this illusion of beauty over even the most unexpected things, and partly for my own attraction to glitter and shininess.
The first time wasn't so bad. I was in need one afternoon and succumbed to temptation. I figured, what the hell, this is a one-time-only thing: I'll never, ever do it again. I held my breath, braced myself, and took the plunge. But as soon as I had stepped inside, a part of me knew that I had opened a world from which I could never return. It was good--too good. And, as you can see, this was no ordinary experience. This was a rare, beautiful thing, with a harsh, scaly exterior but a lush, inviting, voluptuous center.
And from that point on, as much as I've tried to ignore the siren call, I've found myself unable to endure for long.
There are days when I resist--sure, there are days. I've had so much as a week go by when I've barely even thought about it. I'm proud of these times; I see them as a triumph of spirit, of willpower: a reminder of all things good and true in life. These are victorious days, when birds sing with a rare tenderness from the peaks of the mansard roofs and the rich saturated hues of the ads lining the walls of the metro stations glow with renewed vigor.
But then. Then. Then the curse comes licking at my door with its evil tentacles--subtly at first, then with increasing power and determination. It scratches at my door and I pull the covers over my head in fright and shiver because I know it's coming, and I know there is nothing I can do to stop it. It will find a way.
And sure enough, soon, too soon, wave after wave of the craving comes over me, and I fight, I whisper, "NO!" and I breathe and clench my fists and summon every ounce of courage in my desperate soul and lock the door and weep hot tears of anguish, but the tentacles find their way to my haven and clench with a firmer hold and I fight and I fight but the soft interior and warm milky smoothness beckons me and it's strong, too strong, and then then suddenly there's nothing I can do, and I relent, I give in, I relinquish my feeble grip on salvation and plunge into the flaming and glorious waters of ecstastic release, where with the most delectable of sensory pleasures the fire consumes the fuel of my aching spirit, and I am once again immersed in the world I have tried so hard to cast off.
I can never go back. It's hell here--I've signed my soul to the devil and will never be free. It's me and him, alone, in the torturous depths of the inferno.
But man does that guy make a mean Macchiato.