The Twinkie

When I first checked into cell block 6, referred to by those who know no better as ‘work’; I did as all do. I was polite to everyone, I honestly thought that I would be friends with all of my colleagues, and I certainly didn’t possess any plans to become enemies with anyone.

But office life is what it is. Alliances are formed, friendships made and broken, and there’s always someone with an ‘annoying as fuck’ laugh that you secretly want to stab with someone else’s letter opener.

When first sentenced, I thought that everyone here was ‘terribly nice’, ‘awfully helpful’; and ‘kind of weird’. The majority of my colleagues, as previously mentioned, are middle aged women who delight in feeding me cakes and cookies, but who ultimately are lacking in a few vital areas. I cannot talk about sports with them, I can’t recount any details of a weekend binge-drink-sex-sleep-sex-drink adventure, and I can’t discuss the finer merits of the two girls and their one cup. It is for this reason that I looked towards Matthew… apparently closer in age and social awareness to myself, for initial friendship.

I know, I should have known better, the warning signs were there. He spent an hour telling me about the color of the President’s ties. He let me know that he only dated girls who had gone to the same school as he had. All that I have to say in my defense is this… when you first start a romantic relationship with someone, there are things that they do that you consider ‘different, but cute’. The novelty soon wears off. You begin to resent these things, you begin to resent yourself for initially finding them ‘cute’.

The same goes for Matthew. At no stage did I think that he was ‘cute’, but I did catch myself thinking ‘I really should know more about correct shoe care, perhaps I can learn something’.

This honeymoon period didn’t last. I soon came to see him for what he is, a pretentious little swine with an eye on an upper management position. He’ll be my boss within a year, I guarantee it.

Before this breakdown, we sat one day discussing the merits of the Hostess Twinkie. For those of you outside of the USA, this is a synthetic cream filled snack, popular with children, pot-heads, and the elderly. Matthew was about to eat one of these deliciously awful treats, when he noticed that it had encroached upon its sell-by date by one week. Going to throw it away, I asked him what he was doing.
‘It’s past its sell by date’, he said. ‘It’s bad’
‘Those things will survive a nuclear holocaust’, I said. ‘It’s fine’.
‘I don’t eat things that go past their date. I can’t sue them if I get sick’
‘That Twinkie will not make you sick. I’ll eat that thing a year from today and I’ll be fine’.

The deal had been done.

The Twinkie now sits on Matthews monitor, and I’m reminded weekly of the date that I’ll be required to eat it… 9/5/08. Time has ravaged the poor thing in ways that are unexpected to me. It has shrunk, the packaging has expanded like a balloon, and it looks like it’s been sweating.

Herein lies another reason for my requested removal of Matthew. He goes, the Twinkie goes. My girlfriend won’t keep thinking I’m going to die after eating it, I step away from the bet with dignity.