You know, there are some things, and some people, that cannot be trusted.

There are the kind of people who hear a secret, then can’t wait to run and tell that.

Run and Tell That Homeboy.

Homeboy.

There are the kind of people who go around stealing other people’s significant others or who go do horrible, bad, unspeakable things to #bilc member Ed Sheeran… when they’re on the SAME. FREAKING. HOTEL. FLOOR. Yep, getting all indignant on his behalf.

So, what am I getting at here? There are people who you cannot trust. These people, even though you think of the best of them, will let you know, will fall beneath your expectations, will do the unspeakable.

I am that person.

I am that person who cannot be trusted.

I am that person who cannot be trusted to be left alone with a jar of Cookie Butter.

For anyone who lives in South Texas, but under a rock or something, you should know that H-E-B now has their own brand of cookie butter. And it is too delightful.

(Photo cred: HEB Twitter account)

So, as you might expect, I bought some. And, as the intro to this post should have spoiler-ed you… I fell prey to its tastiness and showed zero restraint. And by showed zero restraint, I mean that I dug into the container with a spoon and with the kind of enthusiasm typically shown by fence-escaping beagles, archaeologists and anyone who has ever encountered a fresh tub of Nutella.

It was a blood bath, peeps. Or, to be more exact and picturesquely disgusting and grotesque, a butter bath.

Abby AKA Halla, who is living here now (more on this later) asked about the cookie butter, because I foolishly mentioned its deliciousness to her (note to self: if you like something, tell NO ONE) and she couldn’t find it in the pantry.

“Oh, it’s in there,” I said, before going back to playing with the baby.

Several hours pass. She asks about it again. I have to go to the pantry and point out its clearly visible location (behind several rolls of Saran Wrap, a loaf of bread, a bag of super-healthy and therefore of course unconsumed flax seeds, and some Kettle Chips) and explain, shamefacedly, why there’s about half a jar already gone (note to self: hide snacks better).

At this point, peeps, I should mention that, even for a breastfeeding mom, eating half a jar of a buttery spread is frowned upon. And should be stopped. Keyword – should.

So, what am I to do? Obviously, exerting self-control and eating it in moderation – perhaps with an apple or some other healthy nonsense – is out of the question. Don’t be ridiculous. I have determined the only way to deal with it is full-on shunning: The cookie butter shall be buried under a mantle of oblivion (read: trash) in the deepest darkest depths of obscurity (read: the recycle bin in the garage). And then, maybe, we will be safe and can begin to rebuild that circle of tastiness-related trust.

Or, maybe, like Miranda, someone might have to take matters into their own hands and check me in to the Betty Crocker clinic.

When she turned the conversation into a story about how she ate garbage cake:

(Image: Buzzfeed)

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