Chocolate Fugitive

I can’t help it if I like chocolate.

I mean, who in their straight mind would ever have the audacity to not vast in the smooth, sweet, everlasting current of pure genius that makes up a chocolate and all its profound glory? I know, I sound like I’m directing a sermon, but in this case it’s only mandatory.

So you can understand how absolutely pissed off I was when my oh-so-loving dad decided to abstain me from enjoying it as just a tiny, repeat tiny, morning snack.

Picture me, minding my own business, opening the awaiting refrigerator, reaching in for the only chance at pure bliss… when my dad decides to coincidentally pass by.

I, being the all-knowing daughter that I am, try (key word: TRY) to discreetly hide the muffin behind my back, but my timing was unfortunately too late…(plus, I had crumbs all over my mouth so my attempts would have otherwise been futile).

“ISABELLA GARCES!! WTF are you doing?!” He didn’t really curse, but I can’t think of another way to truly bring his fury onto writing without doing so.

Okay, see, my dad is in pure reality, diabetic. So now you understand his reasons for his antagonism towards anything sugar-related (due to his fear for my unbecoming fate of being diabetic as well), and won’t wrongfully infer him to be a narcissistic father whose sole purpose in life is to starve his children. Just to get that cleared up.

That is why I knew to hide the confection from him the moment he stepped into my line of vision. I know him all too well.

And apparently, he knows me enough too, considering when I tried walking past him with a simple, high-pitched, “Nothing,” all the while hiding my hands from his all-too-observant eagle eyes, he didn’t for the barest hint of a second believe me.

That is when chaos erupted.

Here is my dad, red creeping all over his face, his eyes bulging out of their eye sockets, sweat basically running down his forehead, yelling at me to stop eating the amazing creation in my hand (not in those words, exactly) and to stop walking at that exact instant.

Here I am, fury burning through my whole being, my eyes burning holes into my dad, as I quickly waddle out of the room with my dad yelling behind me, and not helping myself from screaming, “WHY DO YOU CARE?” And then quickly regretting my words (which would undoubtedly lead to the unbecoming future of my dad getting even angrier) and resorting to say, “IM NOT GONNA EAT IT!!” All the while still running up the stairs, the chocolate muffin still in my hand, probably proving my stated notion as false.

During this whole scenario, my sister is right there, cracking up, looking back and forth as if she’s watching a freaking tennis match. I can’t help being mad considering she had eaten the other scone, without managing to get caught, and here I was: a fugitive escaping a death sentence.

It ended up with me taking a few (amazing, forbidden) bites while up in my bedroom, and going back downstairs and when asked by my dad, “Show it to me,” I forcefully confirmed the evidence by quickly giving him sight of the left-over scone, and resorting to put it back in the refrigerator, my dad watching in all his triumphant glory.

Safe to say it ended peacefully, my dad and I laughing about it hours after (repeat: HOURS…a loss like that takes time to recuperate from).

Of course, I failed to mention I went back to finish it off more tactfully when I was sure my dad was sleeping and there was no chance of getting caught.

Yes. I am, in fact…a rebel.

Beware.