Fun In Food Science

It’s that time of year again. Not Thanksgiving. Not Christmas. Not really a holiday at all. Nope. We’re coming up on finals. Ick.

But there is some good news to this! Good news for me, at least. My Food Science professor has done some Hocus-Pocus-Grade-Magic and I know longer have to take the final!

However, since I’m actually paying for these classes, I can’t just ditch the remaining lectures. Wouldn’t feel right. So I wake up early as usual and head off to class. This doesn’t mean I actually have to pay attention…

My friend, who shares the misery of food science with me, also managed to beat the grading system. So today, instead of taking notes and listening to our professor drone on about water activity, we decided to have a bit of fun.

The following is a conversation between us through Skype.

Me: Yo. You there?

Kagit: Wanna see who can write a story in this class period? XD Aqui.

Me: What do ya mean? Like a short story about the class?

Kagit: No

Me: Or just a short story in the class

Kagit: Speed short story ONLY written in the time period of the class.

Me: OMG YES!!! Do we have a prompt?

Kagit: READYSETGO

Me: Maybe like a theme we have to stick with. Like food.

Kagit: Hmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm.

Me: Since we’re in food class.

Kagit: Fair enough. We’re TOTALLY not paying attention! =D

Me: Who cares?!?!?!?

Kagit: I DON’T

Me: Yay!

Kagit: READYSETGO

Me: Okkieday

Kagit: I’m starting now.

Me: Yes.

Kagit: I HAVE A SENTENCE!

Me: I have nothing.

So here’s what I ended up with:

Cravings

Mikey sat on the couch with a bowl of Cheetos balanced on his chest. The orange residue coated his fingers and dusted the top of his shirt. A trashy reality show played in the background, but Mikey had lost track of who cheated on who when the bowl of Cheetos was placed in front of him. This was the good life. Lounging on the couch. Eating Cheetos. Not caring.

Mikey reached down into the bowl for another cheesy snack. His fingers scraped against plastic. The bottom of the bowl. Mikey’s worst fear had been realized. He couldn’t have eaten through the whole pack already, could he? No. It wasn’t possible! There had to be more.

With a considerable amount of effort, he pulled himself into an upright position so as to better see into the bowl. He peered over the rim, only to find a few stray crumbs amongst a sea of orange powder: a faint reminder of the cheesy goodness that had been there moments before. So much for being an unlimited supply.

But all was not lost! Mikey looked down at his fingers, and at the cheese that had lodged itself underneath his fingernails. He greedily started to suck Cheeto remnants off his fingers, relishing what was left of his afternoon snack.

However, his fingers were soon sucked dry. He needed more. And he needed it soon.

Mikey looked around the apartment, searching for any hidden Cheeto packets. The kitchen! Of course! With a sudden burst of energy fueled by his Cheeto craze, Mikey was off the couch. He rummaged through the cabinets. Graham crackers? No. Tortillas? No. Peanut butter? Maybe if it were with Cheetos. Pickles? Hell no! Goldfish? It’s just not the same.

Mikey turned toward the fridge. It was unlikely they’d be in there, but it was worth a look. The door cracked open and a fresh wave of rotting vegetables enveloped him. On second thought, they’re probably not in the fridge. Nowhere even near that fridge.

Mikey was at a lost. Where could they be? He had made sure to buy at least a week’s supply on his last shopping trip. And that was three days ago. Mikey thought back to that day, retracing his steps like all the good detectives do.

It was raining, but he had shielded his grocery bags from the water with an oddly angled umbrella. He might’ve been soaked through, but at least his Cheetos were safe and dry. He burst through the apartment door, intent on breaking open a few bags before dinner. He set the extras on the table. As he turned toward the couch, a pair of hands reached out to grasp the grocery bag…

Billy. There was no denying it. Face set and hands clenched, Mikey stomped off toward the bedrooms. Without bothering to knock, he threw open the door. His roommate was plugged into his computer, headphones emitting a high pitch squeal. Orange fingerprints covered his keyboard. And there, on the desk next to the Pepsi can, were three empty plastic bags with Chester the Cheetah staring back at him.

Billy froze mid-chip when he noticed Mikey in the doorway. His eyes widened, and he tried unsuccessfully to hide the bright orange Cheeto he held in his hand.

“Hey man, I can explain,” Billy started. He shot furtive glances toward the contraband so carelessly placed on his desktop.

Mikey took a moment to collect himself before smiling down at Billy. “There’s nothing to explain.” Mikey slowly closed the door behind him, and took step forward with murder in his eyes.