(It actually, legitimately wasn’t. But I had that thought while brushing my teeth after writing this, and I laughed so hard that toothpaste got all over the mirror. And then I read it again. I … could see myself writing this in the future as a metaphor for sex (with, y’know, jelly kink). It’s possible. I even somewhat expect it. So now it sort of is a metaphor for sex. Just not … a real one? A current-events one?)
I like toast
However, I got bored one day last month and put a slice of bread in the toaster. It felt a little awkward – the toaster is huge, and there was just this one tiny slice of bread in it, and I wasn’t even sure I’d eat the bread that came out; it might have ended up in the woods for the birds, for all I knew when I plugged that toaster in. But I put the toast on a plate, and I covered it in so much jelly I couldn’t see bread anymore, and I ate it.
And I liked it okay.
And I kept on liking it, with less and less jelly, until now my toast looks the way I always imagined grown-up toast to be. A nice, big slice of bread with enough jelly to glaze the top, but not enough to drown out the fact that there’s toast underneath. I still think the jelly is the best part, but I’ve come to accept toast as a relatively positive vehicle for that jelly. Less dishes to wash afterwards than the spoon, at least. Fewer questions about a spoon with small chunks of green on it, to be sure.
But the thing is? I still like the jelly best. (I’m only pretending to be a grownup.)