Why the hell do we reward ourselves with things that are bad for us? Finished a big project? Oh, yeah, now it’s time to get hammered and wake up wishing someone would put a bullet into the depths of your headache. Got a big promotion at work? Like somekind of demonic blend of Murphy’s Law and a Pavlovian response, we automatically think we need the stickiest bun, the chocolatiest bar, or the fattiest burger to mark the occassion. What is this reaction, anyway? Self-worth Whack-a-Mole? Is the adrenaline or the joy so high we think we are now miraculously impervious to the effects of titan portions of lager and pork?
