What I’m about to confess here will not show me in a favorable light. I admit to having flaws. There are definitely some character weaknesses I’m not entirely proud of. But one thing, one truly insignificant item in the grand scheme of things, really rankles me. My irritation at the mere sight of this offense colors my cheeks red, partly out of anger, partly out of embarrassment that I could even get upset over such a trifling matter.

Don’t. Eat. My Count Chocula.

There. I said it. I’m not proud of it. But I’m being honest.

There are few food things that I get upset over. In fact, there really aren’t any. Except for Count Chocula. This cereal is only sold once a year, in the month leading up to Halloween. It used to be I could get it all the time. The chocolate, junky goodness of that cereal has brought me joy since I was a child. As an adult, I enjoy it even more, knowing I only have a few months in which I can partake of this guilty pleasure.

And you know what?

I. Don’t. Want. To share.

Yes, I know that makes me sound like a selfish, petty, asshole. But before you pass judgement, let me explain the food dynamics of the household. It is not possible to enjoy anything with two kids who eat anything that they know you like. The kid who won’t eat much of anything will shovel down mouthfuls of granola or bran cereal if she knows you like it. This is the same kid who hoards all her own treats and only shares with her mom. Yes, she’ll walk out into the living room with some candy and offer her mom some, while totally ignoring me and her sister. So you know what I wanted to do when I saw her pour a bowl of MY cereal for a snack?

I wanted to scream.

It’s bad enough that for the past four years she has poo-pooed anything I’ve cooked or brought home. I buy cereal that the kids want, ignoring my own breakfast desires. You know what happens? The cereal sits there after the first few bowls and goes stale. Then they complain they don’t have any cereal to eat.

But bring home a box of Count Chocula for MY enjoyment, and suddenly it’s the best food ever. I know, I should share with everyone. I just don’t feel like it anymore. I shouldn’t deprive the kids of their share of the Count Chocula. But they’ve hogged countless goodies over the years, not caring that I didn’t get my proper share. I’m an adult. I should be above such pettiness. But I’m not.

This is Count Chocula. All bets are off.

First thing Monday morning, I’m buying four boxes on the way to work. I will keep them at the office until I can safely put them in the cupboard, knowing those marshmallows won’t be digesting for 30 years in anybody’s stomach but mine.