I have taken to spraying I Can't Believe It's Not Butter on my morning toast and oatmeal. It comes in an unalluring yellow plastic bottle that squirts out oily leakage like a Soul Glo cannister. I can't believe it's not one molecule away from actually being hairspray as all nutritional information on the back registers an astonishing 0% in every category except sodium (which gets 1%).
My "love" for synthetic butter comes my newfound fear of succumbing to a heart attack— my irregular breathing and always tense shoulders, how I want to destroy any kid or crutch that interrupts my morning hustle. I saw a subway poster that read, "DID YOU KNOW THAT MORE NEW YORKERS DIE OF HEART ATTACKS THAN ANYTHING ELSE?" 'Yeah, no shit," I thought. Then the subway doors opened and I trampled a wide-eyed four-year-old to make my 8 o'clock Times Square hair appointment scheduled two months ago.
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