Ever found yourself hunched over a pint of ice cream, scarfing down each precious spoonful as if it were literally your last day on earth? Then friend, you've come to the right place. I am all too familiar with "last supper syndrome." If you're tired of eating ice cream like a total lunatic, there is a remedy (hint: it's not frozen yogurt). This story was originally published on January 27, 2014. -- KMNot-so-humble brag: My job is pretty sweet. My office is pretty, my colleagues are smart, and for some reason they let me come to work and write about things like teenage-incest movies and weird stuff that Weather.com is doing . There's not a lot I can complain about...but, I guess I will, anyway. One of the greatest luxuries of working at Refinery29 is Bagel Fridays. The holiest of days in R29 culture, staffers come to work to find our kitchen laid out with bagels and schmear galore. We herd around the counter clawing at the goods like a pack of drug fiends and then settle into a morning of work-sanctioned carbohydrate bliss. Or rather, I do. Or, I did.One of the most insidious symptoms of long-term diet mentality is Last Supper Syndrome. It's that particular anxiety and rush you get when you're given the opportunity to eat a forbidden food. It's the voice in your head that screams for ALL THE CAKE when you're caught off guard with an office birthday. It's what sets you on a French-fry binge at a McDonald's during a road trip when you aren't even hungry. For me, it's what gets me to the office 15 minutes ahead of schedule every Friday, desperate to claim my sesame seed bagel before they're all gone and my entire life is destroyed, forever and ever and ever.To be clear: I live in New York City. I can get a bagel, oh, anywhere. I can get virtually any food I could possibly want at any time of day. I work in downtown Manhattan and live in North Brooklyn. In my entire waking life, I am never more than five blocks away from an artisanal salted-butterscotch cookie. So, the fact that I speed walk to the subway on Fridays, panicked over whether or not I will make it before all the bagels are gone (Note: The bagels are never gone.), is just further proof that years of dieting have made me banana pants.It's a simple equation: My body is used to the cycle of deprivation and indulgence, and my mind is riddled with food insecurity. Since I've spent my whole life teaching myself that bagels are The Untouchable Carb, it's no wonder I act like a maniac when faced with a kitchen full of them. On a "normal" day, eating a bagel would never even occur to me. I have my breakfast blinders on, and life revolves around high-fiber, low-fat, and all the things I absolutely would not want to eat.But, Fridays were a different story. On Fridays, I didn't really have a choice, did I? The bagels were there, so free and so bountiful. More importantly, everyone was eating them, so, it must be okay, right? This was an opportunity I could not miss. I had to take advantage and stock up, for who knows what could happen tomorrow? I could be hit by a bus never having tasted that last processed carbohydrate. Or, more likely, as my traumatized appetite knew — I could just go back to my normal, bagel-less existence.