I Think I’m Addicted to Paper Towels

I think I’ve reached this new phase of adulting, and it scares the shit out of me.

I absolutely love paper towels. Like, you got this thing, right? It’s not a tissue or a piece of paper, but it’s also not a full blown towel. It’s almost like being a polygamous relationship. You committed, but not really. Paper Towels provide me with this great intersection of having the same use and function of a towel, but it’s also something you can immediately toss to the side and get a new one, like a piece of paper, or the first spouse in a polygamous union.

And when you grab another paper towel, you already know it’s fresh, like the second spouse (I’m assuming). It’s not like a dishwashing towel where you have to make sure it passes the eye, smell and “I guess it’s still ok” test. Nope, paper towels are ready for service. And they are durable. I’m talking about the ones that don’t come from the Dollar Tree. I’m not against buying shit that cost a dollar, but as my adulting increases, paper towels shouldn’t cost a fucking dollar. So no, I’m not talking them. I’m talking about the ones you get from Wegmans or Target. The ones the wipe up those dirty messes your messy, ungrateful ass children leave behind with no problems.

I love paper towels. But I’m also addicted.

Over the years, as I’ve earned more money, my paper towel usage has increased astronomically. It’s officially a habit. If paper towels were cocaine. Then that Bounty Double Plus is the finest cocaine from Medellín. And I’m a sniffing. But now, every time I look up, I’m replacing a carboard roll where the paper towels once resided with a brand new roll of paper towels. Am I chasing the high? Am I chasing the dragon? Am I chasing Drogon?

Don’t get me wrong, the euphoria of introducing a fresh new paper towel roll to my kitchen is apex adulting. But my habit is getting expensive. One of the problems is that I simply use paper towels for EVERYTHING. If even a drip of tap water gets on my hand, I’m going straight for the paper towels. If a modicum of food touches my finger, I’m going straight for the paper towels. If I spot an speck of dust, I’m going straight for the paper towels. And I just don’t pull one strip, nah. I pull enough strips long enough to replicate a fucking CVS receipt.

So yeah, I got a problem. And the first step is admitting, right? Maybe even shed a tear. And if I start crying, I’m going straight for the paper towels. I can’t help it.

Leslie McLemore writes about a lot of different shit for Black With No Chaser. He is also the Takeaway Kang, the greatest baby father to the dopest babymomma, and the father of two beautiful girls, one of which gets on every nerve he has. The other one is sweet…sometimes. So, you know, balance. Sort of.

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