Chocolate pudding is the poison I crave. The chocolate puddings of my youth, fondly remembered, are long since gone. Magic Moments, no more. Tin cans with pull tab lids? A fading memory, more legend than fact in these dark times.
Making pudding at home rarely delivers. I know not what I do wrong, but rarely do I achieve the velvety smooth texture my soul desires. Jell-O mix always retains a graininess that plunges my being into darkness.
Store bought pudding packs? A tragedy. Snak Pack? Mediocrity. Jell-O? Shockingly flavourless. No other varietals are available from my local grocers. Pudding seems to be suffering from the monopolization of branded food stuffs that blights our world.
The 7-Eleven is the last refuge, outside of proper restaurants, that carries a chocolate pudding worthy of the name. Their availability is maddeningly inconsistent. A white hot fury grows in my belly.
The pudding is mine by right. The pudding is my destiny. How dare the seventh of eleven keep my prize from me. To make the journey, only to find bare shelves where my pudding should be? An affront to my existence. An insult too grave to contemplate.
Anguish.
