The other day I discovered that I didn’t hate Cheezels, and I think I’m a new person.

Growing up, I’ve always known I was different.

There was my burning distain for all things Wiggles for one thing. I would also chew up my Fruitybix Bar and regurgitate it to eat it like a baby bird. I would exclusively poo outside. All kids are weird, but I was a confronting kind of weird. Another indicator of this, it could be argued, was my tendency to steal off by myself to play The Lion King – there was this amazing log in my preschool that I thought looked like Pride Rock and I would perch on it on all fours like a magnificent lioness for hours without saying a word.

When I was introduced to the idea that there were other people than me who were equally deserving of the attention of adults, it was a tough time. My little sister had not yet been ripped from my mother’s body and, up until that point, my contact with other children was largely restricted to family members. I couldn’t count to ten at the time, but I had enough sense to know that I was superior to those plebs. I can’t pinpoint the exact time when I started operating under the impression I was exceptional, but I suspect it had something to do with an overdose on the confidence-boosting educational programing of the ABC (More Than Words was my fave – yep, even as a youngster I was one of those smug bastards who thinks they’re smarter because they don’t watch commercial television). So kindy was an adjustment period. But even though I slowly got used to the fact that those other walking fartbags were considered just as special as I was, I never felt on the same level as them.

I wasn’t one of the common folk, which is why I would mock my classmates’ artistic integrity when I caught glimpses of their paintings/prolapses over butcher’s paper. But, arguably, my distinction from other children was at its clearest contrast at birthday parties. As much as I loved fairy bread and chocolate crackles, I always felt the sting of being an outcast at such events. It was The Cheezel, or, more correctly, my dislike of it. Kids would walk around the crowded backyard with yellow, powdery hands, licking their fingers with gay abandon while I was free of cheese dust. Something about those toxic-looking rings just didn’t sit right with me. It is fitting that the defining feature of The Cheezel was a hole, because that’s what its absence from my childhood left in my heart. And jamming a finger through an artificially-coloured chip is much more acceptable than walking around with a human heart threaded on an index finger.

I wanted to like them, oh how I tried. Like the Twistie, The Cheezel is an integral party of the great Australian childhood. They were there at every sleepover and swimming carnival. I desperately wanted to be part of that tradition. But to me it tasted like pee-soaked carpet that had been ripped off the floor of a low-quality nursing home. They smelled, made me gag and left a discerning-coloured crust on my fingers – make up your own anecdote to go with that one, I’m sure you have one in mind after that description, you sick puppy. This meant I missed out on classic Aussie experience throughout my childhood. Every clickbaity listicle I read about Strayan youth makes reference to The Cheezel and each time I read it I feel empty.

So when I was recently starving on a camping trip I had inadequately prepared for, I was unsure about taking up an offer to crack into a box of Cheezels. But I was hungry and, because of a slightly-superficial promise to The Lord that I wouldn’t eat potatoes until that Sunday, it was the only snack food I was able to eat without condemning my soul to an eternity of suffering. So I grabbed one, and tentatively placed it on my tongue, expecting my body would reject it like a three-day-old room temperature chicken.

But I didn’t gag. Something about that hollow cylinder devoid of nutritional benefit of any kind changed me.

Maybe I had heatstroke, maybe the warm beer was beginning to destroy my brain cells, or maybe I had just seen the light. Suddenly, I was seeing the world through the barrel of one of the world’s truly remarkable nibblies. And I finally realised a great truth. The Cheezel is the epitome of human engineering: the pinnacle of the achievements of man. It’s a crumbly testament to our five-fingered tenacity to create, to dream beyond the limitations of nature. The Cheezel is why we fought the urge to walk on all fours, it’s the reason we developed opposable thumbs, it’s what made us decide to stop inbreeding. I finally got it.

It wasn’t long before I was knuckle deep in powdery goodness. Making up for lost time, I stuck a Cheezel on each of my fingers, like every phalange needed to wear a floatie. And just like that, I felt whole. I realised that I had previously been living a worthless life alone (and by alone, I obviously mean “without Cheezels”). I mean, I’ve always been aware of the existence of Cheezels, but I never before pictured them being in my life. I never thought I needed them; I had Dorritos and Smiths Chips, after all.

I finally understood those women who flaunt their engagement rings about on social media –this was a bliss I never thought I would ever be able to enjoy and my existence was finally validated. And all I had to do to get here was to convince myself to like something I hated for years.

Suddenly, I saw the great truth: sometimes it takes a hole to make you feel whole. Hashtag blessed.