Dear Little Debbie

I used to think you and I got along wonderfully. I know it’s been a few years since I paid you any attention. I’ve been too busy eating things like fruits and vegetables–or (more often) home baked goodies. But I remembered you with a certain fondness. You were sweet. Not necessarily Twinkies-sweet, and not up to par with my memories of Snow Balls, but I try to be forgiving.

And then, my library had Little Debbie Day today. A whole smorgasbord of Little Debbie offerings, all laid out and ready for eating. I’d been looking forward to this day since we planned it. It was going to be a sweet reunion between two long lost friends.

Instead, you made me sick.

No kidding, Little Debbie. That Christmas tree-shaped brownie? I don’t think I’ll ever be able to look at a brownie the same way again. The way the icing was so stale and foul that it splintered into tiny shards the moment it hit my teeth. The way it coated the inside of my mouth with what felt like seven layers of wax. The taste–the texture. Like industrial ooze thickened into a brownie-like state of matter that exists on a plane all its own. And the taste? I could bite into a rabid rat and get something more pleasurable out of the experience.

Honestly, Little Debbie. I don’t know who went wrong. Maybe it’s me. Maybe my standards have gotten higher in the days since we last had our relationships. I was sixteen, after all. I didn’t look for that much out of a girl. Sugary. Sweet. What else mattered?

Those days are over, Debbie. OVER!

Now excuse me. I need to go find a trash can.

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