It's Crack Time.

Anyone who knows me knows that I love cookies. Actually, "love cookies" is a gross understatement; I am a cookie junkie. Like a heroin addict chases the dragon, I chase the euphoria that accompanies putting a delicious cookie in my mouth. I would lie, cheat, and steal for cookies; hell, I would probably "disappear someone" for you if you offered me a few dozen homemade chocolate chips as payment. Throw some macadamia nuts in those bitches and I'll take out that person's whole family. I am a cookie whore, but while I would do anything for cookies, I won't don't that. (Thank you, Meatloaf.)

I love cookies. Almost any variety (except anything with coconut), and certainly any quantity. Chocolate chip are my favorite (GreenLife in Asheville makes the best ever, for the record), but I will eat whatever cookie is in front of me (except anything with coconut). I do not keep cookies in the house because I have no control when it comes to cookies. I will OD on cookies, and my wife will find me in the closet, empty package of Pepperidge Farm Sausalitos next to me, wide-eyed from the sugar high, chocolate all around my mouth, lamenting the cookies being gone and wondering where I'm going to get my next fix. "I swear, I was just going to have one. I don't remember anything."

Because of my cookie issues, this time of year is difficult. Yeah, Christmas is hard because people like giving cookies, but it's not as bad as when those cute little dealers in khaki uniforms take to the streets and peddle their colorful boxes of crack cookies. That's right, it's Girl Scout Cookie time. Fuck me.

I'm pretty sure the Girl Scout cookie thing is a front for massive drug dealings, because there is no way to explain the delicious irresistafuckingbility of their cookies. My grandma made some ridiculously good cookies, and I would eat them by the fistfuls in violent rages, but as good as they were, they never made me scrounge for change in my truck so I could get "one more box, man..." I imagine the Girl scout cookie factory to be windowless, employed by a bunch of people in their underwear, supervised closely to ensure they aren't stealing any product. The factory manager walks with a gilded cane, and everybody calls him "Daddy." He will beat your ass if you take a cookie. Just ask Pauly No-Toes what happens if you take a Tagalong. They produce these crack-laced happy pills, put them in colored boxes with the faces of Girl Scouts on the side, and words that say something...honestly I don't know what the words say because as soon as I have that box in my hand I'm tearing into it as if the secret of life and a million dollars are inside. What's inside is better than that. The boxes are distributed to smaller local dealers, and those little bitches stand outside the grocery store in broad daylight, just daring the cops to ask them what they're doing. Or they sub-contract their parents to sell shit at work, and the boss knows it's happening and doesn't care because the boss is hooked too. Everyone is doing it.

I buy mine from the daylight dealers at the grocery store. I get an instant fix, no waiting for a few days while Joan from finance "gets back to me." Fuck that, I need my cookies NOW, bitch. I get the green box. Damn right, Thin Mints. Thin Mints may very well be the most perfect cookie in the history of cookies. Mint, chocolate, and 100% pure Afghani black tar in a visually pleasing circular disc of addictive perfection. I love them chilled, so I have to buy several boxes, because if I only buy one box, that shit is gone well before I get anywhere near home and/or a refrigerator. I don't even pretend that I'm only going to have a couple. I'll sit and eat a whole sleeve of those motherfuckers. You want to say something to me about it? Try it. You think maybe I should slow down? I would get up and punch you in the face if I wasn't in the middle of this sleeve. You think I might need help? Fine, be a help and go back to the store and get me six more boxes. Get one for yourself if you want some, because I'm not sharing. Try to take one of my cookies and I will kick you in the chest. Ask my mom. I warned her.

I'm glad this time coincides with tax return time, because whatever I get back from the IRS is blown on Thin Mints. Yeah, my truck needs front end work, my kid needs some dental work, and there are a few bills to be paid, but Thin Mints, man. Thin Mints.

Thin Mints.

Whoever came up with the recipe for Thin Mints should be given a holiday. A day to honor the creation of cookie prefection. A day for junkies like me to celebrate in the open our love of Thin Mints. A day that will make others accept us for how we are and not look down on us. No more hiding in shame under my desk as I put away the fourth sleeve of the day. No more acting as if I only had a few while I visibly shake from the diabetic shock. No more having to explain it was the cookies when my wife finds me wandering aimlessly in Goodwill asking where they keep the midgets. "Ah, he's a Thin Mint addict, it's OK." Have another cookie, Matt, it's fine. Thanks, I will.

Now I need a fix. I'm going to the elementary school. "Hey, little kid...do you know where I can score some green box?"