I love spinach artichoke dip. I could eat it by the spoonful. It’s good from the first green bite to the last cheesy, gooey morsel. If I die prematurely, it will certainly be because of a spinach artichoke dip overdose. It actually almost happened to me once.

I was ready for my bimonthly spinach artichoke party. The dip was warming in the oven. Janelle Monae was playing at an appropriate level – I may have or may not have been dancing in my socks. Four o’clock rolled around. No one. 4:10. The dip was done. It was about to burn, so I took it out. Once I smelled it, I couldn’t resist. I tore into the corn chips bought specifically for the occasion. Thirty minutes and half a dish of spinach artichoke dip later, I couldn’t stand.

The room was spinning. My stomach felt like it was about to explode. That’s when people showed up. They were scientists, so I asked them if a person could die from too much spinach artichoke dip. Their answer: an unwavering yes.

“Your stomach could burst,” they said. “Does it feel like your stomach is splitting?”

“Well, now that you mention it, it does,” I answered, moving my arm across my taut belly. At that point, I was relaxing on the sofa. My friends rushed over and laid me out on the floor and told me to rub my stomach in a clockwise fashion. When that failed, we tried counter-clockwise. Still nothing. I was in my death throws. The room was spinning. My thoughts raced: cheese has opiates. Opiates are in heroin and morphine. Is this what a heroin overdose feels like? Are my hands clammy? I don’t know, I’ve never felt clammy hands. I bet they are.

“I’m dying. On my living room floor, I’m dying,” I repeated. I never even published a book. I’m like the “Confederate of Dunces” guy, except my writing would probably turn out like Kafka’s in some Israeli cat-lady’s apartment.

“What am I to do?” I thought. “I don’t have a will. I’m so unprepared.” Thinking back on it, that was silly. Why did I need to be prepared?

Then it hit me. If this was how I was going to go, it was the best way. Death by spinach artichoke dip. I could see the coroner’s report, the chief of police lighting a cigarette, cursing because he didn’t get there fast enough to save me, the press trying to get a picture of my body and the headline, “Creightonian Opinion Columnist Dips His Last.” I’m sure they would pick a better headline. I’m no good at titles.

I texted my roommate, Miles, and told him to tell my family I died happy and in love (with the dip). I also made a list of my possessions and who would get what. It was an extremely long text. I specified that I would want the script that is above my bed (“Always kiss me goodnight”) to be in my coffin, but that I didn’t want anyone kissing my dead body. That’s grim. But that was unnecessary. It turns out I just needed to burp – the social faux pax! I excused myself and felt better.

What did this teach me? Well, spinach artichoke dip can be fun to eat with a few friends on the weekends, to enjoy responsibly. But there is a dark side to the delicious treat. A dark side full of death and tummy aches, full of lost relationships and bad breath. I am here to tell you that since that day I have not touched the stuff. I have been spinach artichoke dip sober for three months. My name is Brian, and I am a spinach artichoke dip addict.

Wow, that felt good to get off my chest. You know, it’s a battle every day. The dip sits in the grocery store aisle next to the chips and begs to be eaten. But I don’t need it. The dip doesn’t run my life anymore. And I, for one, am glad.