Dear Candy Apple:
Why do you taunt me with your existence? Why do you have to be so big and delicious? I cannot wait to devour you, candy apple, but I can never eat you in one sitting. And since you are, you know, an apple, your shelf life is like two hours. Why are you so cruelly short-lived? The sweet time that we spend together, where I take a huge bite and about half of the M&Ms and graham cracker and dipped chocolate crack off and fall to the floor to form a rich tapestry of failure, is too short. And why, when I hate caramel so much, do I not curse you, as that foul syrup is the basis for your creation and, without it, you would never had been conceived in the first place?
I write this to you now, as you sit in my refrigerator awaiting the judgment we all know has already been decided: You will be kind of icky and rotten tomorrow, perhaps--at best--a sinful and unsatisfying breakfast. From there you will be heartlessly discarded, half-eaten, and sent to the netherworld, where nothing awaits you but fruit flies and the cold hand of the river Styx.
I will never forget you, candy apple. Until next year's county fair, when I forget the heartache and pain and buy a smores apple for like twelve freaking dollars and this soulless cycle repeats again.