A solid fourth of my Spice-Girls-Era diaries is filled with food porn: hot sessions with Kit Kat in the girl’s locker room, sexually frustrating make out binges with Bubble Tape and steamy afternoons spent spooning a large, sweaty bowl of hot chocolate. After I die, those three Jesus Loves Me diaries will survive me for years to come, leaving my offspring generations of discomfort, knowing that Great Great Great GranShan, the matriarch of their race of enormous gingers, was a checkout-lane-item fetishist.