Jolly Rancher

Oh Jolly Rancher, you bastard redheaded stepchild of candy. Unwanted and unloved you sit in this conference room bowl, like the kid picked last for dodgeball. Maybe you’ve been there a month, maybe you’ve been there since Easter, maybe last Halloween. Nobody knows. In your sad plastic wrapper long since stuck to the edges in such a way that opening you still seems to leave bits of plastic behind that will probably lodge themselves in my esophagus. But I won’t leave you to wallow. This instance of me skipping lunch means that like a sacrificial virgin about to be tossed into a volcano, I shall select one of you. A solitary piece whose desolate existence shall be at end. Will it be the green apple? The blue one that I assume is supposed to be raspberry, but honestly, who can tell the difference at this point? Or the fruit punch set to stain my teeth and tongue for the remainder of the afternoon? Wait, is that fruit punch or like, cherry or something? What does it matter? I’m not going to pick you anyway. And so the choice has been made and the wrapper set to release the sugary goodness within. Oh, that’s right, I forgot, you taste fucking horrible.