Letters to the Cupboard (in this case... the filing cabinet by my desk)

Dear Flavor Blasted Goldfish,

You. You and you're unique paper bag packaging. You even look like the lunches my mom used to send with me to the bus stop. But just because you look like an extreme reinterpretation of school lunch from a happy childhood doesn't mean I should treat you that way.

Like, I probably shouldn't eat your entire contents in one sitting.

Sure, it starts out simply enough. A salty craving justified by your small packaging. The knowledge that 51 -- yes 51! -- of you comprise a single serving. The low price point. Next thing I know you've found an open spot in my shopping basket, alongside things that represent my better judgment.

I added you to my secret stash -- the bottom drawer to my left -- and expected you to sit there quietly... like the pretzels do. But no, you and your fishy little contents swimming in flavor blasted goodness just had to stew in that drawer and jump up into my salivary glands every other thought.

Then, when I brought you out and made a 51-piece pile next to my computer, you repaid me by having 5 other 51-piece piles left in your reserves. And you let those 5 servings beckon me until not a single little fishy was left.

And to think they give you to babies as a snack. Shame on you Goldfish. Shame on you.

Love,
Amber