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A fellowship of the forgetful

Meanies
Anonymous

You came home with the milk, the bread, and the good intentions. You did not come home with the Meanies. Again. We can help.

A person sits alone at a kitchen table at sunset, head buried in both hands, beside an open green crisp packet and a mug of tea.

You are not alone

Six adults of different ages sit in a circle on folding chairs in a community hall, holding paper cups of tea. One is mid-sentence; a green crisp packet rests on the floor by a chair.
A Tuesday evening group. Names withheld. Bags acknowledged.

Somewhere tonight, a green packet sits on a shop shelf, unbought. Somewhere, a person stands at a press, certain they had a bag, finding only crumbs and regret. That person is you. That person is all of us.

Meanies Anonymous is a free, anonymous fellowship for anyone whose relationship with pickled-onion corn snacks has become unmanageable — whether you forget them, hoard them, or finish the family bag standing over the bin so nobody saw.

The Twelve Steps

  1. We admitted we were powerless over Meanies — that our presses had become empty.
  2. Came to believe a bigger bag could restore us to crunch.
  3. Made a decision to add them to the list, in writing, before leaving the house.
  4. Made a searching and fearless inventory of the snack drawer.
  5. Admitted to ourselves and to one other person the exact number of bags consumed in the car.
  6. Were entirely ready to share. (We were not ready to share.)
  7. Humbly accepted that they are, in fact, demon-shaped.
  8. Made a list of all persons whose Meanies we had eaten.
  9. Made direct amends, except where doing so would mean giving the bag back.
  10. Continued to take personal inventory, and when the bag was empty, promptly admitted it.
  11. Sought through reminders and lists to improve our memory at the shop.
  12. Having had a crunchy awakening, we carried this message to others, and bought them a bag too.

Your streak

Track the days since you last let yourself down at the till. Be honest. The counter knows.

A small bronze recovery medallion resting on dark wood, engraved with a grinning winged demon figure in place of a number.
The one-bag chip, awarded for restraint not yet demonstrated.
7 days you remembered the Meanies

Voices from the fellowship

An older woman in a green cardigan sits at a table by a rain-streaked window, holding a mug of tea, looking quietly hopeful out over a green Irish landscape.
Bridie, eight months remembered.

"I told myself one bag. It is never one bag. It has never once been one bag."

— Bridie M.

"My family thinks I keep them for guests. We do not have guests. I have a system."

— Pat K.

"Day one, all over again. But I'm here. That has to count for something."

— Anonymous, after a big shop

Meetings

A community hall under fluorescent lights: a stack of plastic chairs beside a folding table holding a metal tea urn and a glass bowl filled with green crisp packets.
The hall is open. The urn is on. The bowl is, for now, full.

Drop in. No commitment, no judgement, bring your own bag (and one to share).

Mondays
After the big shop, by the bins
Wednesdays
Half-eight, the good press
Fridays
Whenever the craving hits