Doomed to Marvel.

I am possessed. It's true. Maybe the Papal College has me on their High-Caloric Watch List or maybe somehow I have avoided their considerable scrutiny. It does not matter, as my Guilt as been long established and well-documented.


I am doomed. Doomed I tell you. Not in a damnation sort of way, but in a "what's wrong with having goat cheese on everything" fashion. Isn't extra creamy a good thing?

I cannot go an hour without daydreaming about some decadent red coconut curry sauce or pining for an overflowing plate of Banana's Foster with Herrell's Brown Butter Ice Cream. It might be the best ice cream on the planet.

My legendary life is one constant quest for the Guiltorious goods that make us marvel in the moment like a finely aged-liqueur and a chocolate souffle. With my new Brandy sniffer in hand, a well-worn leather chair makes the perfect perch to watch Villanova stumble and fall.

I am doomed to Marvel. Doomed I tell you.