I don’t care the Girl Scouts in front of Reasor’s Grocery weren’t friendly. They set up a card table. They had what I was jonesing for. The commerce of addiction is strictly need/supply. The dealer isn’t there to be charming. Hand over the Washingtons, get the box. Boxes. Always the same for me: Thin Mints. Two rolls of cookies per box. I had one box ripped open, one tube unwrapped before I got out of the parking lot. One tube devoured before I got back to the Holler.
I pack them around in my hoodie pouch. Lint? Piffle. You either eat a Thin Mint no matter what or you don’t. If I have to explain, you’re not among the fallen. Count your blessings. It ain’t pretty. Thank gawd it’s seasonal. Even when I think I have a year’s supply, I know 3 months in, I don’t.
Seester Juls is an enabler. She buys Thin Mints from her AZ connection. Brazenly sends them to me through the USPS. And she’s a retired cop.
I’m not alone. According to Girl Scout propaganda:
The biggest sellers are:
The other varieties combined account for the remaining 23%.
Thirty-eight calories a Thin Mint. Who cares?