The Honey Badger and the Last Oreo

There was one Oreo left in the package.

I had bought the package. I had hidden the package. I had — and this is the part that matters — earned the package, in the way you earn things when the week has been the kind of week that the week had been. And there it was. One cookie. Alone in the sleeve like a small black moon.

I ate it standing at the counter, over the sink, in the dark, like a woman who had made peace with herself a long time ago.

People think the Honey Badger is loud. She isn't, not really. The Honey Badger is the quiet decision you make at 10:47 p.m. that no, you will not be reasonable about this cookie. The Honey Badger is the part of me that survived what was supposed to take me out, and she did not survive by being polite about snacks.

I used to think stubbornness was a character flaw. Something to apologize for. Something my mother would have softened with a look across the room. Briana, honey. Now I think stubbornness is a kind of grace. It's the thing that keeps you upright on the days the floor is doing its best to become a ceiling. It's the thing that says, one more morning. one more cup. one more.

The Honey Badger doesn't quit because the Honey Badger forgot how. Somewhere between the years I don't talk about and the years I'm finally living, I lost the instructions for giving up. I keep meaning to find them. I don't look very hard.

So yes. I ate the last Oreo. There were crumbs. There was evidence. There was very little remorse.

If you are reading this with your own version of the last cookie in your hand — the small stubborn thing you are not going to apologize for tonight — I see you. Eat the cookie. Keep the crumbs. The Honey Badger approves.