God, finally. This Odyssey writing interface is terrible, I'm telling you. It took like 5 minutes and 3 times to reload to open this thing. I don't know who to complain to, but seriously, guys, fix it. Also, one simple mistake and an hour of writing progress is gone. At least put in an "Undo" button. Jesus.
Anyway, on to the article. So, today - around 12:34 PM, eastern time, I started feeling a bit peckish, you know? And it's the end of the week, so my mother had yet to replenish our refrigerator and pantry with decent food.So, I laid there contemplating what I was going to eat. Eventually, my contemplation ended due to ravenous hunger, and I got up and made my way to the pantry.
I opened the door, and scanned the contents. Couscous, pasta, raisins, and beans. And for some reason, we had so many cans of beans. We were running low on everything else, but we had beans for days. Red, Kidney, baked, black, refried, you name it. I'm puzzled by this to say the least. So, I go to my mother's room, knock on the door, and she opens it.
"What?" she asked me. Her hair is tied back, and her face tells me she's been asleep for a while, and would rather not be having this conversation, but I press on,
"Why do we have so many beans?" I replied.
"What?" She's playing dumb.
"Sorry, why do we have so many cans of beans?"
"They were on sale."
That solved that mystery.
She closes the door, and I'm off to the fridge. As soon as I get to the fridge, I open it, and gaze upon nothing particularly interesting. Just empty cartons of juice and an empty jug of milk. And plenty of unappealing condiments, like Japanese dijon and an ancient jar of olives I dare not touch for fear of contracting the worst case of botulism. So, I open the freezer door, not feeling very hopeful. A sea of frozen meats and waffles. But, near the back, I spy a red box. I fish it out, and I read - "Hot Pockets (Pepperoni)".
I have never eaten a Hot Pocket, but I was relieved to see something that looked somewhat palatable. I open the box, and follow the simple cooking instructions. As soon as it's done, the instructions read, I was meant to fold the crisping sleeve at the bottom and use it to hold the Hot Pocket itself, but that's ridiculous. I threw the crisping-holder away and set my lunch on a paper plate, and took a can of Dr. Pepper (I promised both myself and my girlfriend I'd abstain from soda, so I already knew things were going downhill.). Then, I went to my dark cave of a room and sat down at my desk to feast.
The first bite was full of marinara, bread, cheese, and a bit of depression. Only, the depression became more prominent with every bite, and pretty soon I was chowing down on a Depression Pocket. What does depression taste like? Depression tastes like grease, limp bread, and too much garlic. Feeling a wave of sadness consume my entire being, I desperately reached for my Dr. Pepper, hoping the taste of a cold soda would mask the taste of depression. It didn't. It tasted of betrayal, and it paired well with the depression, to my disappointment. I finished my garbage, and went to lie down.
As I laid on my back, feeling my stomach hurt - both physically, and emotionally, from the act of me abusing it with a Hot Pocket, I felt so much regret. Regret for the soda, regret for eating the Hot Pocket...but even more regret for finishing it. I knew what I was doing. I knew the route I was headed down, and I kept at it. If I could, I would reverse everything and just have opted for a can of kidney beans instead. But alas, I have sinned, and now I have a Hot Pocket on both my mind and my conscience.
I beg of you people, please, don't eat a Hot Pocket, even if you're on the brink of starvation. Eat anything else.
I recall something comedian Jim Gaffigan once said, and that was -
"Do you think anyone's ever eaten a Hot Pocket, and been like 'Wow, I'm glad I ate that'?"
and I now know the answer. No, Jim, no one has ever said that. I didn't for sure, and I'm sure the millions of other unfortunate souls who have had the displeasure of eating Hot Pocket haven't either. Good day.
