I am not proud of this. My great-grandparents did not raft here from Kazakhstan so that generations later I would end up being a cream cheese thief. It haunts me to this day, and my conscience, such as it is, disgorges that larcenous cream cheese memory into my guilty brain every now and then like something out of an Edgar Allan Poe story. Only more fattening.
Are You a Music Bandit?
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Judge me gently, dear reader. It was 2 a.m., and I
was 16, drunk and hungry. Plus, there was a dry
bagel somewhere in my car's backseat. The line
at the ShopRite, at least through my blurry eyes
and distorted sense of time, was moving
impossibly slowly, and if anyone ever truly needed
a packet of Philadelphia cream cheese, I did. So I
just left. Without paying for the cream cheese.