Death By Chocolate, A True Life Story

   I have this disease called IneedtoeatallthechocolateintheworldrightnoworIamgoingtodie or something like that. Its a pretty serious thing, because its like it has a mind of its own (if you're a big biology nerd like I pretend to be, you will acknowledge that this is seemingly an attribute of a real virus). This very serious, life-threatenng disease seeks to destroy all that I hold near and dear before I inevitably end up collapsed on some linoleum tiles somewhere, completely alone in the world, fondue fonding all over the floor as I curse the heavens and beg for forgiveness on my soul.
   This merciless disease first targets my ghostly complexion and knobby frame. As I succumb to the endless urge to eat all the chocolate in the world, I will grow from ghostly to greasy and knobby to lumpy. This will lead to a decreasing interest in maintaining my looks and hygiene, and my multi-thousand dollar, poster-child-for-braces mouth will decline to something resembling the Byron bog (provincial park just outside London, Ontario- known for its mulch and pete moss).
   Naturally all the relationships in my life will suffer. I only associate with attractive people, and if they're as shallow as me they will all ditch me once I stop shaving my arm pits (which I figure will be pretty early on, in the first stages of the disease). Next will be my parents who will retain love for me in their hearts but will tell their friends that their daughter is caring for abused donkeys in Africa and may never return. Last my sweet sweet boyfriend with a heart of something like gold but not quite so cliche will either gouge his eyes out or move to a donkey reserve himself to avoid breaking my heart. In reality it would probably explode rather than break because at this point the disease has really taken hold and my arteries are drowning in literal butter-- yes, there is butter in my bloodstream.
   Lets speed this up though, because this could get very graphic: blah blah blah lose a foot to diabetes, buy a lot of those extendable claw arms from the dollar store to minimize reasons for movement, get a subscription to the Cocoa 70 newsletter and write complaints each month that there isn't a meals on wheels type program for those too disease-ridden to leave their houses.
   Then comes the fateful day when I fall to the floor in a kitchen (might be a kitchen in an abandoned hotel somewhere because since my roomies ditched me I can't afford a real apartment). The floor is coated in a thick layer of non-descript syrup which I manage to suck on for four days after my fall. The pool of fondue that I slipped on has hardened around my body and what little energy I have is wasted on moving my stumpy neck around in hopes of lapping up some more floor syrup to stay alive.
   I die alone in this environment which the coroner will deem is 70% sugar, 9% sweat and 21% human failure.