Today at work they've broken out the toaster oven, cheap sliced white bread, and the most disgusting, gloppy strawberry-like jam you've ever seen. But as soon as I walk past the manager's room, the smell of toasting bread hits me like a baseball bat. I don't let it tell me I'm hungry, but it does smell tempting. My boss asks me “Do you want?” in the most friendly way. She doesn't understand the problem she's caused. I know it's just the toaster oven fooling me into thinking that pseudo-bread is going to taste good, but it's all I can do to politely say no, finish my copies and run back to my room. I know it's not real bread with real butter and real jam actually made from strawberries. I know I can have some water and wait out the last couple of hours before I go home and have real dinner. I shut the door against the smell. This is my choice. I am strong.
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