The Story of (Cheeri) O

Sweet Jesus, why are Cheerios so freaking good? Their whole grain goodness is just so irresistible, I find myself craving a bowl as I lay in bed awake at night...as I sit in traffic at redlights...as I count down the hours to my inevitable demise whilst staring out my window at work. In short, I heart Cheerios.

Despite my uncontainable hunger for the "o" (the Cheeri-o, that is; not the other "o") (although, I suppose there is a certain degree of hunger for that, as well), I seldom give in to my urge. I find cereal to be ridiculously overpriced, and I am far too much of an elitist (albeit, a poor elitist) to purchase the store-brand Whole Grain Breakfast O's. I want my "o" in a bright yellow box, thank you.

Additionally, there seems to be some additive -- some sort of addictive property -- in the Cheerio that causes one to consume several bowls in one sitting...at every meal throughout the day. Nicotine? THC? Opiates? I'm not quite sure. I just know that when I get home from work and there's a box of Cheerios in the house, I don't want one bowl for dinner -- I want four.

I prefer an unadulterated Cheerio. None of this honey-nut, apple-cinnamon, berry-burst, frosted crap for me. The thought of putting fruit on top kinda disgusts me (milk-soaked bananas? I'll pass), and I even shun sugar because it muddles that perfect oaty flavor. Just give me some skim milk and a spoon, and I'll be set.

True, true: there is a dilemma about what to do with the milk left in the bowl once the cereal disappears (<--you like how it just "disappears" rather than being "ravenously consumed by a madwoman"?). I've found that my solution to this crisis has not so much to do with my mood, but is entirely dependent on my income. For example, if I purchased my box of Cheerios on a credit card, then chances are that I will conserve my cow juice and slurp from the bowl, rather than pour a separate glass. On the other hand, if I did not have to take out a loan to buy groceries, then I will likely be Another Wasteful American, and pour the leftover milk down the drain. It's horrible, I know. Luckily (for whom, I don't know; cows?), I seldom have cold hard cereal-buying cash in my wallet.

But when I do, when I give in to the most primal of urges (well, perhaps, second-most primal), and I bring home a box of General Mills finest, I am a happy girl. From the dulcet plink-plink-plink as the first "o"s fall into the bowl until the last crunch leaves me saying, "Mmm, yeah, baby...that's the stuff," the whole experience satisfies me like few things can.

Can you believe I'm still single?