Why I Am Like A Box Of Chocolates









My own dear sister  was the first to tell me that I was definitely like a box of chocolates because (imagine an evil sneer here),  "You never know what you're going to get."  She wasn't just whistling "Dixie." 

When you open up that yummy looking box of Fannie May Chocolates, you might even find an empty box devoid of all but a few crumbs.  That's how I roll.  It's the well-known label you can't trust  when come to town.  "I am large. I contain multitudes," wrote Walt Whitman.  "Hey, beatnik, me too!"

My multitudes are biochemical.  Hey, I'm bipolar.  Life is one big roller coaster ride for me.  What can you expect?   I might be sweeter than chocolate covered marshmallow fluff one day, or as innocent as plain milk chocolate, or as quirky as a piece of covered pineapple.  The girl can't help it!  It's all in the way the brain is wired.  The disorder is marked by wild, cyclical mood swings from highs or mania to deep depressions which include angry outbursts. 

The ironic part for me of being described as being like a box of chocolates  is that it is supposed to be a comfort food.  It is normally ingested to prompt feelings of coziness and security.  We eat it when we are unhappy to cheer ourselves up.  It's as though Lucy van Pelt, Linus' mean older sister, poured fire ants all over his security blanket.  Doubly cruel.

Candy lovers beware!  I may not have taken all my medications lately, in which case I can seem quite nutty or taste like the "mystery" chocolates that no one really is sure of what the contents are,  and everyone is as sorry they ate it as they would be eating a big serving of meat loaf at the Target diner.

Chocolate is unfortunately not the comfort food others think of it as, when it's my personality traits its covering.  It may look enticing, but so does the Venus flytrap to an insect.  My trap slams shut just as quickly,  if I haven't taken my mood stabilizers.   I have had two ex-husbands and some long-term partners who could have attested to that,  if several of them hadn't died from sheer exhaustion and aggravation.  Yeah, they would have told you about the "Days of Wine, Chocolates and Roses."

Look out for that nougat.  You don't know what it's capable of doing inside your mouth.   It can kick back with the recoil of a .458 Winchester Mag. (500 grain, 68.9 ft. lbs.).  It can break your teeth into splinters.   Just call it one of my black moods.

The cheaters who pick up a chocolate,  and, thinking no one is the wiser, take a tiny nibble to see what's inside and then put it back, are in for some rough trade action.  They get what they deserve from my box:  mold, decay and hunks of some unknown foreign matter that they'll regret chewing and pull right out of their mean little mouths.  The result of another roller coaster day gone South.

Myself, I naturally prefer dark chocolate.  'Nuff said.

Life is like a box of chocolates because so many suffer from near multiple personalities, as I do.

Psychosis comes in different fillings and flavors too.  I relate to having a wide selection from which to choose:  "Hmmm, let's see.  Today feels like obsessive-compulsive, no, make that paranoid, but I think I feel an attack of borderline personality creeping up. Am I going up?  Down?   Have a chocolate won't you?"

Life is like a box of pre-licked chocolates if you ask me.   Where is the uniqueness and freshness?  Why is it always the same old euphoria or gloom and doom?   Why is it never the middle ground?

Have one with a cherry in it, won't you?  So I can watch as it splashes all over your face and clothes!  Gosh, I needed that laugh.

Today is a nice day.  I am mellow.  I am a chocolate covered jelly piece.  I only get a little stuck in your teeth too because I feel so good.  I like myself today.  Hey, mister, do you like me today?  If not, who cares.  I won't give two shits tomorrow. 

I'm no Rock of Gibraltar which is how one expert with nothing better to do described the appeal of the large rectangles that come in an assorted box.   Far from it, I crumble like a used Kleenex if called upon to take responsibility or act like an adult.  That's why those chocolate covered jaw-breakers will pull your teeth out by their roots.

This same time-waster candy expert says circle shapes are for party animals:  people who don't like to be alone and feel lost without company.  I prefer conflict and chaos myself--it makes me feel at home.  So I make sure that the circles contain coconut for all the people who dislike it so.

Sometimes, due to my personality disorders, and I forgot to mention adult attention deficit disorder too.  I am a piece of a little of everything like the marzipan almonds in my box.  Yes, a marzipan center topped with a roasted almond in a dark chocolate shell--a little bit of everything all rolled into one.  Too much for some, I call it a creative offering.  If I were a candy bar, I'd be a Whatchamacallit. 

And I'm nothing if not creative. I analyze everything.   If a chocolate is not made with the right ingredients, it may not taste right, look dreadful and even lead to illness.  If it is placed in fancy wrapping though it could just as easily be hiding the fact that it is cheap, nasty and inedible.  The burden of consumption is not mine.  The confined enclosure of the box could lead these delicate little gifts  to perish if not presented in the right manner.  Then the world for them would really be a terrible place. 

In summary, to throw my crazy-cone hat into the ring with Thomas Hobbes,* "The life of man (is) solitary, poor, nasty, brutish and short."  That's why my life and I are like a box of chocolates.  Now you know.  "Want a Prozac, partner?"

---------------------------------------





*"Thomas Hobbes (5 April 1588- 4 December 1679, English Philosopher,  remembered for his work on political philosophy.  His account of human nature as self-interested cooperation has proved to be an enduring theory in the field of philsophical anthropology." -- Wikipedia



MS. REFUSENIK TELLS IT ALL: "OH, IT COULD HAVE HAPPENED TO ANYONE.''

MS. REFUSENIK TELLS IT ALL: "OH, IT COULD HAVE HAPPENED TO ANYONE.''

"OH, IT COULD HAVE HAPPENED TO ANYONE.''




I don't think I should be blamed for the little faux pas that occurred on the night of my almost first date with the cat of the walk from work. 

I was trying to get ready for my much anticipated first date with a luscious specimen from work that all the women called "The Prince."  He was the sole embodiment of everything that all the other male worker losers didn't have:  he was intelligent, great looking, and had interests other than bean counting. He had been seen reading Salon.com  at his desk while Forbes were stacked up in the wastebasket.  He drove a hot car.  Okay, call me superficial, but it's been a long dry spell since I've been out on a date.

Oprah wouldn't blame me for what happened, and I don't even think Dr. Phil would.  I have a serious case of adult A.D.D.  And if you do watch Oprah at all, then you know that hoarders have a disease beyond their control.  They deserve understanding and not criticism.

I blame my friends too.  They refused to support me in getting a pet.  They insist that even a medium-sized dog or cat would get lost in my squalor,  and never again see the light of day. I do have a pet, a very good pet, and I hide him if one of them comes over.

Aiden rang the buzzer just as I was wrestling a red leather sandal free from a clump of computer cables, mystery and extension cords and a few belts that got into the mix for some reason.   I got to him on his fourth buzz.  I like impatience in a suitor, don't you?

He looked as if he always wore that impeccable suit coat and lovely silk tie. I tried to imagine him in beat up looking jeans and a torn tee, and I couldn't. He was too perfect, while I was wracking my brain trying to remember if I had removed all of the paper towel I'd stuck in my dripping armpits while putting on my makeup.

I tried not to look at him as he took stock of his surroundings.  The look revulsion which always came over the countenances of all my new guests was just too much for me at the moment.  I had manners though, and  asked if he would care for a cool drink.  He said water would be "grand."  I liked that, "grand."  He spoke the King's English, alrighty rooh.

Of course there wasn't a single clean glass in the house.  I found one less filthy than the others, rinsed it out and filled it with cold tap water.  Then I set it down the only place where there was room:  on the floor.  It was a wide-mouthed empty jar but it would do.  

I ran to the bathroom to check for stray paper towel bits and to wipe the sweat off my face.  Then I returned to get the glass which was now a bit opaque thanks to the three pieces of ice I had pried up off the bottom of the freezer.   I handed it to Adien with all the grace I could muster as I climbed over a very tall stack of yellowed newspapers to reach him, nearly tearing the hem out of my skirt with my high heel.  

And then the man proved that he could pass an audition as a screamer in a slasher flick.  I swear the effeminate, high-pitched wail he let out had to wake not just the dead, but my zombie neighbors who were usually transfixed in front of the tube hypnotized by game shows, sit coms and fried pigs feet or some other disgusting slop.  I saw him throw the offending glass on my pile of last spring's vacation laundry, where it ricocheted off unharmed.

I was confused at first.  I thought he was some princess and the pea type who had spotted my spit-and-a-promise washing job on the pickle jar. I waited to take my scolding, as he continued to cough up sputum from the bottom of his lungs and spit the crud on my floor.  Uncalled for I say.  I don't care what kind of dive you live in.  You can't just go around spitting on people's floors!

"Did you put that creature in my glass on purpose?" he managed.  "Is that your idea of a practical joke, because, listen you bitch,  there's nothing funny about passing on germs, disease and God only knows what kind of infections."

I walked over to the glass, curious,  picked it up and yelled to my little reptile buddy, "Timmy, how did you get in there?  Did I forget to change your island home again?  I am so mean.  You just needed some clean water to get you going again."


Sure enough the high-strung little Map turtle, needed water to duck into because he felt afraid because we had a guest.  Map turtles became especially aquatic when they felt nervous or fearful.  I had neglected to provide enough water for him to cover himself.   Thank goodness he was an independent kind of guy who could look out for himself.  But being thrown across the room couldn't have soothed his nerves any.

Aiden found his way to the bathroom.  I heard him gargling with my Listerine like a row boat with a tug boat engine.   I owed Timmy some peat moss, wet sand and a little ivy plant for saving me from an evening with this hysterical neurotic.   I had a new mystery I wanted to read anyhow. So much for dating.  I think it's overrated.  Too much trouble and too many changes to go through, if you ask me. 

A TOTAL OF FOUR ROADS, TWO TAKEN, TWO NOT, by R. Frost and Me

 The Road Not Taken


Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that, the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
two roads diverged in a wood, and I --
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

Copyright © 1962, 1967, 1970
by Leslie Frost Ballantine.



 
The Street Not Taken, by MsRefusenik (with apologies to R. Frost)

Two streets forked in a bad slum.
I didn't want to go down either one.
I stood there trying not to look too dumb.
As far as I could see all was scum.
If only I had carried a big gun.

I chose the one without the dead rat,
Too late, I saw it had all the crack dealers.
When they spoke to me I sure didn't chat.
Could the other have been where it was at?
Next time, I vowed, I'll first put out some feelers.

I had a choice and I chose Crack Lane.
No wonder I didn't see many people walking here.
If I ever make this trip again I'll take a plane.
Or maybe I could hire me an Andy Frain.
I won't come back because I feel too much fear.

I'll be home soon and here I come.
The guys in the bar will buy me a drink.
Two streets forked in a bad slum,
And I ran before I knew what from
It very nearly sent me over the brink

(fish surrendering) haiku

fish surrendering
their flesh to man's foul contempt
an ocean of shame