It’s 10 p.m. in Uptown. Every moth from the four corners of the earth has diverted course for the glowing light of Super America on Lake and Aldrich. A scrubby guy in a Rush t-shirt skulks timidly near the door, a cigarette hanging precariously from his mouth.“Spare some change?” he asks, while I make my way between him and a stack of window cleaner.“Sorry man, I only use plastic these days,” I reply. He leans closer, squinting through the wisps of smoke in his eyes.“That’s okay,” he says, “there’s an ATM inside.”Stupefied that my routine brush-off was actually challenged, I clamp my mouth and walk into the store.Something akin to survivor’s guilt accompanies me while I crisscross the isles and load up on soda pop, Cheetos, and a decadent variety of Little Debbie snack cakes. (Debbie wouldn’t be so little if she actually ate this stuff.)Fortunately for me, I have a limited capacity for shame in the face of a certain fix.My parents used to stash junk like this all over the house to keep it out of my reach. Continue Reading