Do We Need An Intervention?

My name is Conor, and I'm a butteroholic.

I love butter.  It's like Christmas and Halloween and and fireworks and my birthday all mashed together in a stick of glorious, creamy butteriness.

I'm not proud of my addiction. I just can't help myself, it seems.

It all started when my mom and dad (with my DAN! doctor's permission) let me start having milk products.  I was pretty allergic to milk when I was a baby; I would throw up everywhere and with much gusto. I guess I'm just one of the lucky ones to have grown out of the milk allergy.

That first hit just hooked me.  The creaminess, the melt-on-my-tongue wondrousness that is butter just floored me.  I couldn't help myself, I could not get enough of it.  The high, I lusted for it. I dreamed of it. Pretty soon, I insisted that it melt on top of practically every meal I ate.  On corn.  On baked potatoes. On rice. On mashed potatoes.

Oh hell, I'll even just eat it straight. Just shove that pat of butter right into my mouth, sit back, and savor the taste. I live minute-to-minute for my next pat of deliciousness. I can't help myself. It's an illness, you know?

After that first week, things got really bad.  I hit bottom pretty quick. I blame the butter.  I lied about how much butter I had eaten.  I stole. Mom caught me with my hand in the butter holder so often, she would just yell "don't eat the butter!" without even looking at what I was doing in the refrigerator.

After awhile, I even asked the nice lady at the movie theater to put that runny stuff they call "butter" on my popcorn.  (My mom wasn't happy, but she didn't want to create a scene.) I know it's not really butter, but it tastes like butter and that's enough for me.

The thought of butter consumes me. I create homages to butter holders in art therapy; at the paint-your-own-pottery shop; I buy them online.  (All with my own allowance, though. My mom's no enabler of this portion of my habit.) I even bought my mom a butter holder for her birthday.  Her birthday.

If Mom takes me to the grocery store, I'm stopping by the dairy case to grab a couple boxes of butter. I shudder to think we might run out. One day, I know I'm going to wind up at the corner store buying some out of my allowance. I just can't stop myself.

And if the power goes out?  It's every man and butter stick for himself.

My mom limits me to three pats of butter at lunch and dinner. If I ask for one more, she'll probably give that to me, but then she cuts me off. I'm not happy about it, but I've learned to live with it.  Occasionally we go to Outback Steakhouse, and that place is the butter bomb, baby, 'cause they practically give you a whole tub of the stuff. Although I catch my mom and dad telling the server (behind my back, dude) to only give me half portions. I don't know why they do that, I can handle eating a tub of butter, for heaven's sake. I just use a spoon and eat it straight. When you've been a butteroholic as long as I have, you can manage the bigger doses.

Really, I can totally stop anytime I want to.