An open letter to licorice all sorts

Photo by David Edgar - Own work, CC BY-SA 4.0

Dear licorice all sorts:

Go to hell.

On the way to hell, scrape some of the blue and pink nuggets off some of your blue and pink pucks and snort them, and get them caught in your sinus, where your nasal secretions will wet them but where they will remain, undissolved and hard and endlessly irritating.

Farther along the way to hell, try and fail to blow the wet blue and pink nuggets into a tissue. As the nuggets remain stuck in your sinus, their blues and pinks unrevealed, shed tears of discomfort and wipe them with your unfulfilled tissue.

Farther still along the way to hell, peel the yellow tube of fondant off one of your licorice cylinders. Put the cylinder between your cheek and gums, and push your tongue into the tube, and feel the dusty, dirty, oily shards of licorice surrounding you on all sides. Feel the stink filling your mouth but do not swallow. Feel as if you will drown in licorice mouth juice.

Do not drown. Breathe uncomfortably through your nose. Tell yourself you are not really drowning. Do not believe yourself. Feel as if you are seconds away from your first lungful of your own stained saliva.

Cough. Spit up on yourself. Gasp for air.

When your gasps subside, bite one of your square sandwiches, one that’s white on one side and orange on the other with a squeegee blade of licorice in between. Pretend to taste fruit or vanilla. Realize pretending is futile.

Do not rinse for 30 minutes, nor after 30 minutes.

Sob. Weep. Cry. You’re on the road to hell. Whatever. Fuck you.