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Saturday, April 13, 2024

Humor: A message from your forgotten bag of chips

This message was recovered from an unnamed students backpack 

Hi – you know who I am. I’m writing to you from the recesses of your JanSport, your North Face, your Fjallraven Kanken or whatever equipment is now trendy to drag me from place to place. It’s been a long few months for me, as you would expect. Conceived in an Olson Hall vending machine at approximately 4:51 p.m., I have been traipsing alongside you as your faithful companion for weeks and weeks on end. Half-eaten, half-deflated and half-crushed, I am a shell of what I once was. 

Despite my haggard appearance, I have cried with you after you failed your first midterm. I have gone on that weekend trip to Tahoe with you and watched you drink too much watermelon Smirnoff and lose your already questionable dignity. I have kept you company through long lines for the MU bathroom. 

You may think that I must love you by now because of the time we have spent in each other’s presence. You have read about the proximity effect in your psych class and believe you can rely on me for emotional support. The sad fact is, though, I don’t love you. In fact, my demise and my loss of vitality is direct proof of your cowardice.

You are scared of me. I know it because I have heard you say it in quick quips to friends explaining and apologizing for my presence. You say “Oh, I forgot about those” in an entirely dismissive manner with a hint of embarrassment. You act like you don’t remember me, but I can see you peering at me occasionally. You hide me behind your pencil case, glancing at me at the dumpster, as if pondering a course of action. But you’re too embarrassed to eat me.

It all started that fateful day you took me out of the flaming pits of the Olson basement. You were sitting in your discussion when you took a bite and realized, to your absolute horror, that I make quite a crunch. I can’t believe this surprised you. Nevertheless, you noticed a few people glance at you in shock, so you aggressively shoved me away. I have not seen the light of day since.

Despite the gloomy circumstances of late, I have hope. I know you are a forgetful slob. I know you never remember to bring your fictional “healthy tupperware lunch” that is just a figment of your imagination. I know, one day or one night, you will need a quick snack between classes. You will be short on cash and low on energy, so you will not bother to seek a shiny new treat.

You will look for me. And I will be there. Bad news: you forgot to seal me. You will be shocked at the smell alone. I will simply laugh because you have no right to be shocked. Revenge tastes bad.


Written by: Kelsey Stewart — kcstewart@ucdavis.edu 

(This article is humor and/or satire, and its content is purely fictional. The story and the names of “sources” are fictionalized.)


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