Hello, my name is Mark and I am a minimalist. I have been living a simple and clutter-free life for the past five years. I have reduced my possessions to the bare essentials, and I have found joy and peace in the process. I have also learned to appreciate the beauty and value of the things that I have, and to be grateful for them.

But there is one thing that I have not been able to let go of. One thing that has become my obsession, my weakness, my addiction. And that is French loaf.

Yes, you read that right. French loaf. It is just regular bread. Cold, soft, bought from somewhere in bulk. Nothing interesting at first sight. But there is something more in the bread. Something that has hooked me and made me crave for more.

How It All Started

It all started when I was serving my mandatory military service in the Finnish Defence Forces. I was stationed in Northern Finland, not in Lapland, but close enough to feel the cold and the isolation. The days were long and hard, and the nights were even longer and harder. The only thing that kept me going was the thought of supper.

Supper was the highlight of my day. It was the time when I could relax and enjoy a warm and hearty meal with my fellow soldiers. It was also the time when I discovered the wonders of French loaf.

You see, French loaf is the ultimate minimalist food. It is simple, versatile, and satisfying. You can eat it plain, or with butter, cheese, jam, or whatever you like. You can dip it in soup, or make a sandwich with it. You can toast it, or microwave it, or eat it cold. It does not matter. It always tastes good.

But what makes French loaf so special is not its taste, but its texture. It is soft and fluffy on the inside, and crusty and crunchy on the outside. It is a perfect balance of softness and hardness, of tenderness and toughness, of delicacy and durability. It is a bread that can withstand any condition, and still remain delicious.

That is why I fell in love with French loaf. It was not just a food, but a symbol. A symbol of resilience, of strength, of simplicity. A symbol of minimalism.

How It Became an Addiction

At first, I ate French loaf in moderation. I would have one or two slices at supper, and enjoy them with a smile. I would savor every bite, and feel the bread melt in my mouth. I would thank the universe for giving me such a wonderful gift, and feel content.

But soon, moderation was not enough. I wanted more. I needed more. Every time I ate French loaf, I felt a surge of pleasure, of happiness, of euphoria. It was like a drug, and I was addicted.

I started to eat more slices at supper, and then sneak some more to my room. I would hide them under my pillow, or in my locker, or in my backpack. I would eat them whenever I felt bored, or stressed, or lonely. I would eat them in the morning, in the afternoon, in the evening. I would eat them until I felt sick, and then I would eat some more.

I did not care about anything else. I did not care about my health, or my weight, or my teeth. I did not care about my duties, or my friends, or my family. I did not care about minimalism, or simplicity, or gratitude. I only cared about French loaf.

How It Ruined My Life

My addiction to French loaf did not go unnoticed. My comrades started to notice my strange behavior, and my growing belly. They started to tease me, and call me names. They started to avoid me, and exclude me. They started to hate me, and bully me.

My superiors also started to notice my poor performance, and my lack of discipline. They started to scold me, and punish me. They started to demote me, and humiliate me. They started to despise me, and abuse me.

My life became a nightmare. I was miserable, and alone. I had no friends, no respect, no dignity. I had nothing. Nothing but French loaf.

But even French loaf betrayed me. There were days when they did not serve it at supper, and I felt a massive withdrawal. I felt angry, and anxious, and depressed. I felt restless, and hopeless, and desperate. I felt like dying.

I still have one month left of my service, and I do not know how I can survive. I do not know how I can get that exact French loaf again. I do not know how I can live without it.

I do not know how I can be a minimalist again.

How You Can Help Me

If you are reading this, and you feel sorry for me, or you want to help me, or you are curious about French loaf, please contact me. Please send me a message, or an email, or a letter. Please send me some French loaf, or some money, or some advice. Please send me anything.

I am begging you. I am desperate. I am addicted.

Please help me.

Thank you for reading.