I had cake for breakfast. That's right. I'm 27 years old, I answer to no one but myself, and I eat cake for breakfast. I am my own woman.

It was a lemon poundcake, left over from a coworker's birthday. I tried to save it until the coffee was ready, but there was icing on the top crust and I was weak and it was gone before I poured my first cup.

Then Danny (the Candy Enabler) showed up. "Of course you had cake for breakfast," he said. When I came back to my desk, he had arranged a candy smiley face for me, with reese's pieces, peach gummies and red licorice rope. Sadly, I ate it before I could get a picture. But I won't let it happen again.

I can't take all the credit for my candy addiction. I couldn't do it without the support of my family and friends. For example, when I woke up this morning, the first thing my girlfriend said to me was "want me to go buy you a dozen doughnuts?" That's true love, folks. And Danny (hereinafter the enabler) actually called me from Dylan's Candy Bar in New York. I feel like I owe it to them, and to the many others who help along the way, to keep loving candy.