There comes a time in all of our lives when a chocolate bar is no longer consumed for the sake of pure indulgence. We agonize over the consequences of throwing caution to the wind as we fiendishly check the label to ensure that it displays some obvious indication of the precise percentage of cocoa in each serving, saving us from the remote potential of judgement from the cashier as the tasty treat lays juxtaposed amongst our carefully selected fruit on the conveyor.

I find no solace in this masquerade of maturity, and although I never chased the neighbor’s cat while pretending to be a dinosaur, I do STILL savor the taste of a shitty bar of chocolate. My long-winded and rambling point is that there is honesty and joy in the juvenile narratives we craft, and that play should be embraced instead of shied away from. Sappy maybe, but I’ve found we all have just a little bit of dinosaur in us, and if you’ve lost yours, I would love to help you find it.