I reluctantly bought a four pack of Cadbury Creme eggs. #4 was a real asshole.
First Egg had all the action, being the One I really wanted, apparently not because they are actually delicious, only because I always manage to psyche myself up about their deliciousness in some odd loyalty to a vague memory of once really enjoying one. So when I see this silly once a year thing I go "OMG delicious!" and I am compelled to get one. Except they only came in four packs and it was the day before Easter and for fear I might not have my slightly disappointing Cadbury Creme egg moment at all, I bought the damn four pack. I peeled back the foil, bit a little off the top and sucked out the sugar bits. My gratitude that the egg was no bigger kicked in and I began to wonder, if I had really REALLY enjoyed that shouldn't I be sad to come to the end of it rather than kind of glad it was over? Is it possible that these are not at all as delicious as I once thought? Could the recipe have changed? Might it be a side effect of being a grown ass woman that cheap sugar blobs no longer hold the same appeal? Was the love truly over?
Egg Two - A few days later I remembered I had more creme eggs, but did not remember that I decided I don't actually like them, so I ate one. I pulled back the foil and tried to bite off the top but it cracked in half and my mouth was flooded with far too much cheap chocolate at once. The inside was runny, which is normally kind of the weird creme egg holy grail for me, but this time, with such a breech in the shell, it came at me faster than I could eat it and just got all over my hand. I don't like having sticky hands. Creme eggs were starting to get on my nerves.
Egg Three - Several days later I again remembered that I had two more creme eggs. I resolved to eat one as though I'd never tasted it before. Without nostalgia as a motivator for eating it in the first place, and with a resolve to actually taste it, I found it to be kind of disgusting. The chocolate was pretty gross and I sensed a burnt flavor with a stingy sort of chemical essence which is probably glossed over by the inner sugar blob. The innards were gloopy and stiff, granular and slightly nauseating, with that odd yellow food colored center. I suddenly imagined this is an actual raw egg and recalled with an entire body rush just exactly how revolting I find runny egg yolk. Seriously, the only time watching something almost made me throw up was during a random channel change to Fear Factor where I saw a woman try to drink a pint glass of raw ostrich egg. I can't even talk about it without gagging.
Egg Four - It wasn't looking good for egg four. I was debating just chucking it in the trash, but that seemed so wasteful. I didn't forget about this one. I knew it was there, lurking in a basket in my office, next to some Oriental Rice Crackers and horehound throat lozenges. I'd spent the day moving things around in my basement and hurting my back and had decided to climb into bed with a book and allow myself to relax. Somehow I thought it would be a good idea to take the egg with me because chocolate and reading in bed is one of my top secret favorite things. I settled in with my book and told myself, "I will eat this egg in bed! With my book! Slowly, slowly! And I will not even consider thinking about raw eggs or that an egg posing as chocolate is still pretty disgusting, and I won't think these thoughts because I worked really hard today and my back hurts and I have a sweet tooth, and this creme egg is right here and not to eat it would be wasteful!" But I couldn't dissociate the creme egg from the pint glass of horror or keep my mind from humming the words, "Would you like to become a fat ass diabetic?" and I asked myself, "Self? Do you really want to eat this thing?" and the answer was no. And because I was cozy, I left the egg on the other pillow (where I had placed it for easy reach) and after half a paragraph, I was asleep.
In the night the egg made other plans, though I knew nothing about them until this morning. Like a dazed detective I have pieced together the events. All my mean creme egg thoughts must have penetrated the gaudy foil and headed straight to the fondant. I imagine it rocking and muttering, boiling with rage. Or you know, I shifted and it just naturally rolled toward me, but whatever, by the time it barreled at me in the night it was a nasty little ball of burnt sugar on a suicide mission. Like a sneaky little Easter zombie it went for my neck. It melted under the foil and leaked out all over everything, leaving a sizable chunk of my hair matted with dried sugar crumbles and fakey chocolate. It stuck my necklace to the tiny tender hairs at the nape of my neck and smeared my cheek with gore. It had its way with the sheets. I found its flattened husk pressed between my ear and my pillow, whispering me awake, "HAHA I was manufactured with hfcs and zombie vampire juice in a Canadian factory by a company that makes pretty sub-par chocolate where no bunny knows what the hell eggs or bunnies have to do with each other or Easter in the first damn place and now you've gone and made me feel bad about it, so I showed you! You think you're so cosmopolitan with your international sweet tooth and quaint little treat dreams and book reading and your big clean bed! I didn't ask to be number four! Now you have the first world problem of a lot of laundry to do because you brought round chocolate to bed, you idiot!"
And I was like, "OH NO YOU DIH-UNT" And now the creme egg whose name was asshole, who melted all the time and tried to eat my neck, is resting at very bottom of the trash can and I am doing a lot of laundry.
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