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.
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.