Here’s something I’ve never told my parents: I used to steal chips at family events. I was a shy kid, so instead of playing with the others I would mill around the food table and wait for all the responsible adults to distract themselves, then gorge myself. One time, at my great-aunt’s house, I took two full packets of Pringles (the party’s entire chip inventory) and hid. Knowing I could be caught at any moment, I ate them like I was in a time-trial mukbang, jamming them into my mouth in stacks seven chips high. Eventually I passed out from the exertion, like kids do, somewhere near a TV, probably covered in chip dust.
When I woke up from the chip coma, I felt disconnected from reality, my mouth numb and my tongue feeling like the victim of a Saharan sandstorm. The same way I feel after taste testing my way through more than 30 packets of potato chips. But instead of the childlike pride of a successful heist, I have a full adult dose of regret.
