It started with that damned commercial before Jumanji: The Next Level. That’s the fetid soil from which all my sins have since sprouted.

“This is your mission.” “No, this is an envelope!”

Ohhh, that yellow M&M, the dolt of the group. His botryoidal body positively vibrating with desire for that sexy temptress, the green one. Ah, and here comes the confident blue M&M — nay, the blue pretzel M&M, oh joyous day! They’re discussing recent developments in their nudist colony and…

(Maria please take me back)

…the caramel M&Ms are, unfortunately, not as good at being nudists as, say, the peanut ones. They do, however, the wrathful reds and brainy browns especially…

(Maria sometimes I suck the sugar shells off the M&Ms and dance with them)

…enjoy sitting in different formations on a checkerboard, arranged in pleasant little geometries…

(Maria I promise I can go to parties with M&Ms now. I will not drop everything to dig my hands around the bowl, muttering to myself about how the red one goes on fervent religious tirades every time he rides the New York City subway — quoting, without specificity, Billy Holiday: “It is worse than war or pestilence; It is the crime of crimes; It is the parent of crimes and the mother of sins; It is the appalling source of misery and crime in the land”)

…pleasant little… geometries…

(and then disturbing the party by dumping the bowl and myself to the ground, making a M&M angel while multiple adults worry I am having a terribly metaphorical, metaphorically-terrible seizure)

(People think that way, Maria, they really do)

(Maria, I told the EMTs what the orange M&M told me — that he’s the “Jerry Bruckheimer one.” The EMT’s asked me what that means, but I found myself unable to speak even but one word more)

I’m sorry I missed your surgery, Maria. I got caught up at the bank by a bowl of complimentary… well, you know.

I love you, Maria Menounos.

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