The other day I was in Tesco Express (it’s like 7-Eleven but with more food and less homeless people outside) and I saw a bag of Maltesers. They’re like Whoppers—a.k.a. malted milk balls—but Maltesers is the British version. Anyway, I grabbed the bag, and after it was in my clawed grip, I saw the smaller, more traditional box version.

I look at the box. I look at the bag in my hand. I look at the box. I keep the bag.

Later on, after I have ripped open the bag with the grace of a lioness tearing into a deer carcass, I noticed writing along the tear. Mouth full of Maltesers, I put the two flaps back together and read the words:

More to share!

And hey, Maltesers, let’s stop with the fucking Judgment Train. We both know that the people buying your hefty size of Maltesers are not going to “share.”

Ripped apart like my dreams.

Ripped apart like my dreams.

I resent the implication that by buying the larger size, I will be sharing. I will not be shamed into gifting away my candy. There’s a reason I bought the big bag of Maltesers, and that’s because it was easier to hold them in the hand that wasn’t holding onto two chocolate cheesecake slices and a pint of Ben & Jerry’s. You’re lucky I’m not pouring those Maltesers into a bowl and drowning them in milk. Actually, wait that sounds pretty good. I might do that.


*Returns with a handful of mini Babybel cheeses*

I didn’t do the Maltesers in milk thing because A) I have class and B) I didn’t feel like opening up my milk. So I just ate two mini Babybel cheeses. I am mildly paranoid that one of my floormates will steal a cheese, which is a weird thing to be paranoid about except that I used to steal my sister’s mini Babybel cheeses when she wasn’t home ALL THE TIME. I think I ate more of them than she did. Sorry, not sorry.

Halloween is coming #spookyspooky

Halloween is coming #spookyspooky

Back to the Maltesers. This bag is not a goddamn cornucopia. This is not a Horn of Plenty. You won’t find this slightly larger than average bag on my Pilgrim table. So I feel justified in not sharing these malted milk balls. Additionally, sharing malted milk balls seems very Norman Rockwell, very Good Ole American. Like you and your high school sweetheart share a bag of Maltesers before you go off to World War One and she goes into some secretary work and suddenly it’s 2015 and you’re dead (?) and nothing matters and everything is darkness.

That’s what the idea of Maltesers makes me think of. So really, me not sharing my Maltesers is my way of keeping a little less nihilism in the world. Because, trust and believe, if I wanted to, I could REALLY GO THERE.

So besides veering dangerously towards diabetes, not much has been going on in my life. I went to Brixton this weekend—slay queen—and wrote 3000 words of a paper in two days only to find out that the due date is not this Tuesday, but NEXT TUESDAY. My eyes were bleeding at the end of the second day.

There are cute boys that I have my eye on—just one, because I’m cross-eyed (I’m not, cute boys, I just said that for comedy’s sake, 😉 so don’t worry)—but I’m really bad at flirting and it just ends up with me talking about snake penises. They have two.

I really want a pop queen album to look forward to. Last year around this time, I was preparing my body for 1989, and it’s been a very long time since I was excited for a pop album. I mean, Adele is supposedly coming out with a new album, but I’ve been burned by her before, so I’m not gonna believe that until it’s in my claw. Again, cute boys, I do not have a claw. It’s for comedy. I am single. I am available.

I just looked it up and apparently Selena Gomez and Demi Lovato have albums coming out in the next month-ish. I stand by my previous statement awaiting the album of a true pop queen.

I have nothing else to say. Maybe I’ll do, like, a personal essay for my Thursday post. I’m just not very interesting. That being said, hire me!


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