I’m eating a Pop Tart right now. It’s strawberry. Reminds me of a simpler time where my mom toasted them up for me when I was a kid then take me to school. Life was easy back in those times. I always have a box of them just for a quick breakfast or a snack. A lot of people like them and it reminds of this story from my sophomore year.
I lived with another guy and a girl and it was fairly easy going, but the girl was a little picky.
…and by a little I mean a lot.
“This is dirty!”
“Pick up your mess!”
“Quit walking around in your boxers!”
She nagged like crazy about everything teeny tiny little thing until you wanted to go on a killing spree of kittens.
One day, she gets the notion to eat one of my Pop Tarts. No big deal, right? Wrong. She opens it up and she was disgusted at the fact that she was about to eat a FROSTED strawberry Pop Tart.
“Ew. Gross. I hate the frosted kind. The unfrosted are way better.”
At this point, the nitpicking had push me to the point of rage and Hurricane Jaybird struck land. I told her that I was tired of her riding my butt about every little thing and telling me how to live my life. She couldn’t judge me on what I did because half the stuff I did was the repercussions of her actions. This is one third of my apartment and her third was starting to get into my area and the fact that she would have the audacity to eat my food and then judge me on what I picked out was stupid. I told her she was a communist and that she hated everything that is good about America and if she wanted unfrosted Pop Tarts that she could go spend her own money on her own UNFROSTED COMMUNIST AMERICA HATING NAZI LOVING POP TARTS.
She ate every bite of it.