I had too much chocolate in one go, I think. I use up all my quota on chocolate-induced-endorphins.
I haven’t had chocolate since high school. Those nights where I binge watched Downton Abbey while breaking pieces off that Strawberry-flavoured Rittersport on the glass table, leaving messy prints and bits of chocolate on the spotless surface.
They say when you eat chocolate, your brain produces endorphins that would make you feel happier. I haven’t had one in two years, and yet I used to like it. So much can change after years and days of being disappointed by these bars of chocolate.
“I don’t eat chocolate,” I lied to my boyfriend, because it made me sick to the core thinking that I wouldn’t feel that happiness it had promised to deliver. So despite all the cramps and menstruation mother nature gut-punching, I didn’t touch a piece of chocolate.
It does seems silly, to be mad at chocolate, to be mad for not being able to be as happy as I want to be despite knowing I should be. Is that difficult to fathom? The idea that you can’t be happy despite wanting to be?