Whenever I eat cookies I fall into a sugar high (sugar low?) and swivel in my seat as I bust out improvised song lyrics or free style poetic rap-estries (You know, like, Tapestries…) and disregard the seams of my pants rubbing deeper and deeper into my inner thighs. Not that I care though, I’ve got cookies. No, something beyond cookies. They’re warm cookies. Soft and gooey as hell. They come from a place where late-night sanctuary is every intake of air saturated with cinnamon and butter that laminates the nostrils and coats the tonsils. Ladies and Gentlemen, I’m talking about Insomnia Cookies, and they’re the greatest damn cookies in New York City.
And by that, I do mean that the small price of $1.25 per cookie is kinda the greatest deal out there. Granted, an even better deal is being a Marketing Representative for the company and having the opportunity to shuffle around giant 10 pound boxes of cookies from sixth avenue to Broadway twice a month. That’s what I do. I simply open the box, set out the menus, tell the kids to play and get their hands messy, and bam. Marketing Pro-fesh-E-un-ALL.
The result of the act is really refreshing on all accounts. I plop the box on the counter and fan out my menus and everybody congratulates me and thanks me. My Dean calls me the 2nd Messiah. My professor says I’m the blessing she’s been waiting for, ‘a student who works for a cookie shop, God BLESS!‘. I’ll take it, I guess.
Like a flood, dozens of fellow students rush to the box and swipe away as many as they can hold in their hands while still looking dapper as hell. Note; the writing department is very prestigious when it comes to how one wears a beard and a scarf. If your iPhone doesn’t have any scratches on it, you haven’t known what it is to be a writer. Luckily for me, I’ve been able to live through Roommate horror stories in my private university Dorm Room overlooking Union Square Park. I have real sh*t to talk about. It’s the new-age Bohemia; it’s why we dress like we’ve lived through so much: we really haven’t. Granted, while I can speak for others, I guess I can’t speak for myself. I simply find myself continually complaining that my pants are getting either tighter or looking wider and all the while I’ve eaten 3 Snicker-doodle cookies. They’re just too delicious and no, I won’t stop. Well.
The sugar high is starting to fall. My stomach is solidifying in a pool of cement and as a result, my esophagus feels like its being pulled down into something much of a dangling Bacon strip. It feels like exhaustion after a night of having actual insomnia. It’s funny how we can accept that something can be good for us even if it satisfies us for a minute and leads us into a sugar crash for an hour after. At the end of the day, why is it that once the bloating resides and the headache fades and you’ve taken in enough water to recuperate, all you want is another snicker-doodle? I don’t think that’s a bad thing at all, now that I think about it. If anything, it’s a sign of respect; to eat something, despite the inevitable crash, for the sake of immediate and past satisfaction, the moment after the taste has melted off your tongue. Whether or not it’s a sign of respect for you or for the people who made what you’re eating, well, that’s all on you, I suppose.