I am sitting on the train. My companion got off at the last station. He left not knowing that while he was sharing the finer points on creating comic twists in writing, I was thinking about hazelnut chocolate from Whole Foods.

It's sold in fat chunks, wrapped in cellophane. It's clearly been divided up and labeled on-site, just like a side of lamb.

Each chunk is at least a pound.

When you cut it, you'll find it's softer than you'd expect a block of chocolate to be. As you press the knife through, it will separate into layers, and it crumbles as you pick it up.

The first bite is amazing. There is nothing quite as delicious as chocolate and hazelnuts together.

After you have eaten a lot it tastes like fat, solidified chocolate fat.

If I try I can eat a whole chunk in one go.

I'll pass Whole Foods on my way home.

The ultimate decision to go inside is not impulse, because I have been considering it for at least half an hour now. Buying chocolate feels like a task that can be achieved for an easy and immediate reward. Similar to, say, helping someone by holding the door open. The need to avoid shame and self-loathing at loss of discipline is weak, and the long term gains of weightloss and health are vague, dreary and unrealistic.

It seems obvious to enjoy the moment and reject the shame, embracing both the logical conclusion that self-improvement is unlikely and staging a satisfying rebellion against the forbidding super-ego.

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