We here at the Hindenburg don't want you to self-actualize. We don't want to improve your life, we put no interest in your dietary habits, and don't give a shit about those Gnome Whittlings you keep sending us. All we want from you is to send us satchels of money and to tell us where Chris Sabo is hiding. We've got his Rookie of the Year Trophy on our mantle and want him to come pick this shit up. I don't have a lover but I still managed to have breakfast in bed. I don't have a lover so breakfast in bed equates to a cold Pop Tart. Like the Bermuda Triangle and Bon Bons, Pop Tarts were once a very big part of my existence. I'd eat them while reading scab papers at the breakfast table. I thought this would be a darling anecdote to include but our demographic probably supports the strikers in any and all scenario. Your opinion of me aside, you can't debate the fact that I was half asleep, holding a Pop Tart to begin the day. You can judge almost anything, but not this. It was a "Welcome Back" moment, the first I've had in some time.
Pop Tarts have dwindled from my life like appointments to the dentist. I think about them, I harbor some sense of appreciation, but it just isn't worth the effort. (Note: it's hard to type with all these cavities). These problems have their roots though. I got caught stealing from the Dentist. I also vomited on a road trip with a belly full of Pop Tarts and my mom said "I Guess Pop Tarts are ruined forever." Holding a cold Pop Tart in my hand in my half asleep state I wondered for a bit why I didn't eat Pop Tarts anymore, I knew they could never be ruined no matter how many I threw up. If anything Pop Tarts are one of the few foods meant to be vomited. With their jagged edges, splinters of frosting, and propensity to turn into paper mache. It is a wonder that no rural South American Tribes employ this process as a rite of manhood. I can't wait until I have sons and these sons have Bar Mitzvahs (I intend to marry an Albino Jewess). It'll take months to clean the carpets (I intend on never wearing socks in my home again).
I didn't need coffee to wake up this morning. The Cinnamon danced on the cusp of my nostril and it was purely romantic.
The first bite was taken and all I could taste was blood. Now I recall the reasons for dumping my favorite flat snack. After a love affair with the famed toaster pastry I began to taste blood with each and every bite of each and every flavor. This isn't to say that I don't enjoy Pop Tarts, because I do. Tasting blood in a thin pastry sheet is a surprise best left for the midnight hours. Stumbling down the street you might and up shooting bits of tart out your mouth, into traffic, and into the thing of legend. Like I said, nothing can be immortal in the morning hours so why not wait to appreciate it correctly. It's like wine that way.
I don't know what General Mills has up in the waters of Battle Creek (Cereal City) but I have reason to believe that they have some Genocide going on up there. I have seen The Road to Welleville and see no reason to doubt any atrocities. When I taste a tinge of iron and a bit of flesh I don't feel disgust. I simply see it as a drastic change in the dynamic of breakfast treats. This should, by all accounts, be disturbing. It isn't.
Oddly enough, the blood helps the strawberry variety.
