I stumbled into the kitchen this morning feeling particularly peckish. Scrambled eggs and cottage
cheese! With hot sauce! As usual! I was reaching under the counter for the scrambler pan when I
heard a muffled throat clearing. Slight, yet haughty. Polite, yet arrogant. I rolled my eyes and
turned around. Sure enough. White bag of croissants. Rustling.
"What, man?" I asked, exasperated. "I told Mom I didn't want croissants! You're not for me, you're
for Ray. And she's still sleeping. So keep playing word games or whatever." And I turned back to the
stove. But it's never that easy.
"Um...?" began the bag. "But, why, though? I mean, you know, why?" That damned cherry-filled.
"Because you're huge! You're just a huge, big, giant ball of dough! With.. cherries. And icing.
And anyway, you're Ray's."
The bag tittered. "Actually, Ray's not going to get up for another four and a half hours. And then
she's not going to feel well so she's going to go sit in the steam room at the gym." That fucking
cream cheese-filled. "She'll give two old women a sinus infection. One of them will have to take
"Guys, no. Stop it. I'm having eggs."
"You're out of eggs."
Shit. No point in even looking, then; cream cheese-filled is never ever wrong.
I look at the bag. The bag looks at me.
"I have an icing heart on me this time!" sings cherry-filled, rocking back and forth. And what am
I supposed to do then?
"You're going to eat us both," reports cream cheese-filled happily. "And then later, you'll be
brushing crumbs off of your shirt and you'll get a big croissant flake up your nose. You'll smell
croissants for like three hours." And then they both burst out laughing like little schoolgirl
Psychic croissants: always right, but a sense of humor like a bag of rocks.