It takes mental fortitude — steel in your boots, ice water in your veins, the courage of 18 lions — to do what I did. There was a half-eaten box of chocolate turtles sitting on the kitchen counter. It was like a drug pusher trying to lull me in every time I walked by: “Hey buddy, you looking for chocolate bliss? Why don’t you come over here. This’ll make you fly.” Oh, OK. Maybe just 14. When I caught myself in a staring contest with the box — tears running down my face as I begged for it to release its demonic hold — I finally realized what had to be done. An old fashioned exorcism.