They made me sit next to the Sabra hummus packets today. Can you believe it? The hummus packets! Do they think I’m the proletariat? Need I remind them that my granola is forged from solid gold, and my strawberries are diamonds stained red with the blood of laborers. I would not be treated with such disrespect if I were at my original home on York Boulevard. At the real Berry Bowl, people get it. They know I’m a hot commodity, the talk of the town. They know that if they Snapchat a picture of me, the anti-gentrification club will come break their legs within hours. But here? Nothing. They cart me out each morning, storing me too close to the ice generator so I’m frozen solid. Again, this would NEVER happen on York Boulevard. On York Boulevard, they have standards. Here, it’s like, $12 without a student account discount is “too bougie” for these peasants. And I — hold on. Diary, I’ve got to run. I have to tell someone what an “acai” is.
A Marketplace Berry Bowl
It happened again. It’s Sunday, and it happened again. Someone started to make me and then FORGOT ABOUT ME. I’m sitting in a waffle maker and I have been for 12 minutes because you took your hungover ass to go get an omelette-to-order and FORGOT. ABOUT. ME. I’m going to be CRUSTY and BLACKENED and TASTE LIKE ASH and no one will eat me. Even worse, I’m whole grain. God, will someone notice me? I see you people seeing that I’m still here. Take one for the team and just pull me out and PUT ME IN THE GARBAGE. I CAN’T HANDLE THIS. This is all because last night you decided to get drunk and hook up with Jessica from CSP 24 and it took you so long to find your way out of Braun afterward that you neglected to drink any water and woke up with a hangover and LEFT. ME. HERE. I miss my past life in the Eggo factory. At least there I knew I’d be eaten, or at least repurposed into a Stranger Things costume.
A WAFFLE YOU MADE WITH THE WAFFLE MAKER AND THEN ABANDONED
I’m tired. So, so tired. They plopped me down on the counter at 5 p.m., without a second thought. They don’t care about me. No one ever does. How many times must I be looked at condescendingly by a football player on his way to a concert required for his CORE fine arts class? How many times must a Theta without options gaze at me, mutter, “I guess,” then shove me into a to-go container? How many times must an overdramatic theater major break down upon sight of me, exclaiming “I can’t right now” before heading to Thai Eagle Rox, citing reasons of “self-care?” Why couldn’t I have been born any other food? Why couldn’t I have been like a Homestyle dish, for which a die is rolled nightly to decide which arbitrary flavors are combined? At least if I were Balsamic Chicken or Sloppy Tempura Joes people would at least give me a chance. But no, I’m just Friday Spaghetti. Life is but a dreary nightmare steeped in watered down Preggo sauce. I yearn for death.
Just End It Already,
Friday Night Spaghetti
I’M MADE TO ORDER, BIIIIIIIITCH.
GET IN LINE,