Reese's
The Reese's in the vending machine at work are always melted.
Their chocolate bottoms stick to the coffee colored paper wrapper, and peel off completely, revealing squishy, sandy brown, peanut butter flesh.
Instead of a neat circle, the chocolate folds up on two sides,
Like the face of a child getting squished by an overbearing aunt.
It tastes gritty. Like there isn't enough chocolate and the peanut butter conceals grains of sand.
75 cents and 250 calories later, here I am.
Holding the atrociously bright orange wrapper, flapped open, in my hand.
I take the two hollow skeleton cups and shove them inside.
The wrapper doesn't quite "crackle" but it "crinkles" like the laugh plastic would make if it were able to laugh.
I careen off my armless desk chair and toss it into the space between my hand and the abyss of the trash can.
Naturally it misses and lands on the floor.
That's what you get when the pilots of a vessel are two hollow skeleton cups.
Their chocolate bottoms stick to the coffee colored paper wrapper, and peel off completely, revealing squishy, sandy brown, peanut butter flesh.
Instead of a neat circle, the chocolate folds up on two sides,
Like the face of a child getting squished by an overbearing aunt.
It tastes gritty. Like there isn't enough chocolate and the peanut butter conceals grains of sand.
75 cents and 250 calories later, here I am.
Holding the atrociously bright orange wrapper, flapped open, in my hand.
I take the two hollow skeleton cups and shove them inside.
The wrapper doesn't quite "crackle" but it "crinkles" like the laugh plastic would make if it were able to laugh.
I careen off my armless desk chair and toss it into the space between my hand and the abyss of the trash can.
Naturally it misses and lands on the floor.
That's what you get when the pilots of a vessel are two hollow skeleton cups.
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