I know this is a sickness. I'm aware that my habit is horribly environmentally-unfriendly and my sins have condemned me to a future in landfill purgatory, where I'll be forced to sift through the thousands of pounds of plastic I ate from during my vacuous time on earth.

I do feel bad. Guilt is a hobby of mine, so this conveniently nestles in to my growing list of things to feel shame for, but guilt alone will not part me from my beloved pudding cups.

Like much of the modern Freudian world, I blame this little "problem" on my mother, who, in a rash of sensibility and frugality refused to buy me any individual serving snacks as a child.

Having come of elementary schoolage in the 80's, at a time of unquestioning consumption and luxury, I sat alone at my lunch table with my whole grain bread and bruised fruit cursing God for my near-organic homelife. I watched, my mouth filling up with drool, as my school chums ravished fruit roll-ups and ding-dongs, and fun size candy bars: their little legs pumping furiously under their desks while the sugar hit their systems. I may have gotten sugar, but it wasn't cloaked in the type of sealed plastic wrap that just screams "America!"

Now that I'm old enough to buy my own food and I'm not subject to the nutritious facism of "the man," I'm buying it all. I'm not holding back. Waistline and environmentalism be damned, I want my snack packs and I want them now.