I'm taking the cookies with me . . .

So I came into the office this morning feeling groggy and depressed. Well, on my way to depressed. I wasn't awake enough to feel much of anything. And then one of the professors came by my office and dropped off a plate of cookies she'd baked for me. Okay, so she hadn't baked just for me, but she was making cookies and she decided that she would bring a plate to me. Still an awfully sweet thing to do.

What is it about a plate of cookies from someone you hardly know that just makes you feel all warm and wonderful?

Since I didn't post yesterday, and I really have nothing worthwhile to post today, I thought I would put a picture of my cookies up, but then I discovered that I forgot my cellphone today.

Damn!

So, instead, you get the next best thing - an artist's rendering of my cookies:

Okay, so I pinched the cookie image off the web and Photoshopped it. Perhaps I should actually draw my own cookies:

Yes, they have smiley faces on them! How could a plate of gifted, smiley face cookies not make you smile yourself? I haven't eaten any of them yet. They're too adorable. Besides, if I eat these cookies, I will look like this:

(Yes, that is a proportional drawing of my clown feet. Oh, my hands too. I have giant hands. Like in that Seinfeld episode. Man hands. I could crack a lobster with these babies. Not that I would crack lobster: I don't particularly care for lobster. I mean, for eating lobster. I guess if I didn't like actual lobsters, then going around and cracking them with my giant hands would seem perfectly logical).

Of course, because I am neurotic this way, I am also concerned that if I do eat the cookies, especially here in the office, there's a chance that the phone will ring or a student will stop by just as I have taken a bite (shoved an entire cookie in my mouth), and in an attempt to keep from speaking with a mouthful of cookie and running the risk of a: sounding like a snorting warthog when answering the phone or b: spraying wet cookie crumbs all over a student, I will swallow too big a bite, choke on the sugary goodness, and die due to the fact that a: I am on the phone, mouthful of cookie, with a blocked airway and unable to communicate my need for an ambulance or b: the student who is in my office, in a rushing attempt to administer the Heimlich manuever, will trip over my giant clown feet, run smack into the corner of my desk, and be rendered unconscious, thereby leaving me to suffocate because of the cookie lodged in my throat. Then I will look like this:

So, you see, were I to consume these smiley-face cookies, I would die a terrible death. My obituary would read that I died because of an affinity for sweets, they would have to buy a giant-sized coffin to bury my fat ass, and all the people who made fun of my in high school would get a good laugh at my expense. Yet again. And because of my past transgressions, and the fact that I am a smoking, lesbian-loving, radical feminist, socialist hippie, I would, according to my grandmother and minister uncles, end up in hell:

And no, that's not a tiny devil in the corner, that's a lobster because as we all know, lobsters are unclean and have no chance of entering heaven when they pass on.

So I would die, humiliated, and suffer eternal damnation. All because some horrid professor stayed up last night, plotting my demise (probably because I didn't order the right kind of chalk or scented white-board markers), and baked me cookies, knowing that I would be unable to resist temptation.

Well, cookie-baker, I have news for you! I can resist your cookies. I say NO to the cookies. I will not taste . . .

Oh, wait, I just remembered I left my cell phone in the car!

Hold on while I upload the image . . .

Wonderful, smiley-face cookies baked just for me:

(Oh, and for the record, this is what I look like now, without eating cookies:)