I am sad. Deeply sad. In fact, I am in quite a state of distress, for I may have lost the one skill that has proven to be very precious to me over the years.
You see, I think that I may have Repetitive Strain Injury, which may have resulted in the loss of said precious ability. What is this talent that you have lost and that has you so distraught? I hear no one in particular cry. Why, it is the mastery of ripping apart chocolate wrappers.
Let me take you back. Back to a time that was forged by fire. Back to a time where the icy winds of change, chilled the air with it’s hypothermic sensibilities, causing icy cold glaciers of wintery sadness to rip through my frozen heart. That’s right, 6 pm, Thursday evening.
There it lay, a prepossessing picture of hedonism and lust, begging and enticing me to step forward and to take of it’s wanton excesses. Try as I might, I could not resist it’s lascivious allure and soon, I found myself in a fluster of erotic indulgence, as I grabbed the packet of Malteser and rampantly tore at it’s rustling covering. That’s when it happened and that’s when my life changed…forever. It was at that moment, the moment between ripping and finally quenching my cocoa desire, that a sharp pain drove through my right hand. The agony of it was so exquisite, that I could only gasp out loud as the shock reverberated through my entire frame. This caused the action of ripping to become quite a violent act and as my hand spasmed with the aftershock of my acute discomfort, I noticed that those tiny, balls of honeycomb, coated in a canopy of chocolate, had become sprinkled into the four corners of my room. What made this sad affair even more heartbreaking, was that they had rendered themselves unreachable under the non removal-ability of laden and cumbersome furniture. And that’s what finally broke me.
In my despair, I flung myself onto the threadbare carpet, my knees jolting in torment as I hit the floor. “Noooooooooo!!” I cried out in defeat. “My preciousess!” I wailed, all the while tearing out my hair in abject horror and just a little bit of the overdramatics. “Why lord?” I wept bitterly. “Why would you give me something so heavenly, only to take it away as if it were snatched by the hands of Satan himself?! “Why must you be so cruel and unjust? Wasn’t it bad enough, that I am still grieving for the loss of the Snickers bar that unfairly met it’s demise by way of falling onto the pavement, not a minute after I had unwrapped it’s nutty goodness?”
“Oh for goodness sake!” Came a disapproving, sibilant voice. So consumed in my grief was I, that I hadn’t heard Spawn creep up behind me with all the stealth of a baby elephant…wearing clogs. “Do you want me to call the fire services?” He asked. “Would you?” I cried, a glimmer of hope splintering through my heart. “You would do that for me?” “No”, replied the black hearted evil one. “Really woman, your craziness really knows no bounds does it? I mean, you’ve not only gone mad, but you’ve skipped over the bridge into Crazy Town, looked around and then decided to set up permanent residence.”
“And this is why I love chocolate more than I love you!” I screamed, spittle dotting my chin. “Chocolate would not forsake me or call me names. Chocolate would love me, as I love it.” I yelled, now beginning to realize that I sounded like I probably should book myself a holiday…at the nearest mental health facility.
“If chocolate had any consciousness, they’d leap out of the packet and run as far away from your insanity as they could, you mentally defective woman.” And with that, Spawn slithered out of the room like the treacherous snake that he is and back into his boy pit.
And so for 40 days and 40 nights, I sat there hoping against all hope, that those little chocolate covered balls that I so dearly love to suck upon, would somehow reappear once again. They never did and now remain in their final resting place for evermore. Or until I ask my brother to come and move the bloody furniture for me.