When Sally Met Chocolate

Once upon a time, a college freshman named Sue bought a jar of brand-new chocolate icing. She carried it back to her dorm, happy and excited about this delicious treat. Her roommate, Sally, happened to be sitting at her desk when she brought in the icing (studying very hard, not watching Netflix/Facebook stalking or anything like that). Sue walked over to the fridge, and said, "Sally, I have some chocolate icing! I'm putting it in the fridge, if you ever want any, help yourself!"

Sue turned around, and didn't notice that Sally had frozen in place, with her eyes locked on the fridge. Sally licked her lips.
*One day later*
Sue walks over to the fridge, feeling rather hungry for some icing. She opens the door, peeks inside, and. .  . nothing. Nothing is there, except for an empty jar of icing and Sally's massively guilty face. 
Guess who Sally is in this completely false, unreliable, questionably-sourced story?
Oh that's right. Me.
And yes, it's 100% true.
I have a serious guilty pleasure called chocolate, and let me tell ya something about Europe. 
It's full of delicious varieties and flavors of rich, sugary perfection, and I'm just loving it.  Seriously, though--I've had chocolate sprinkled-toast in Amsterdam, Nutella (jakdfjajkdfj love) from Germany, a cacao truffle from Switzerland, chocolate macaroons in Paris, and much more from England. There's a lovely chocolate store called "Chocolat-Chocolat" right across from my college (cruel trick of nature) and I bought some "Noir Lavande" (dark chocolate with lavender) yesterday, and dark chocolate with sea-salt today. There were multiple levels of irresistible deliciousness going on there, let's be honest. It's like the romantic movie "When Harry Met Sally," but for me it's, "When Sally Met Chocolate." That kind of relationship, of tumultuous, drawn-out, irresistible love, between me and chocolate. But like any relationship in life, sometimes moderation is key. So chocolate, I think we need to take a little break, just to clear our heads.
And no, it's not me. Really. It's you. 
Cheerio.