Thank You for Eating Tide Pods

I didn’t enjoy December. After my relationship and place of work ceased to exist, my mother followed suit. Three days before Christmas. As you can imagine, I’ve been in a mood.

I’m negative by default. The old site slogan was “Positivity is for other people,” until Mute Monkey informed me he wanted to spend more weekends smiling and less throwing bottles at tourists and passing children. Back then, my biggest personal problem was a blood feud with Princeton University, which they won by spending more than half the week sober. My reaction to having real, adult problems was as uplifting as you’d expect.

Normally, I channel anger into dick jokes. This time, I channeled it into more anger. Humor felt like a religious delusion from a distant land. I was too busy finding different ways to pick my brain apart to enjoy anything. If it helps, imagine a Jamaican-American version of Notes from Underground.

Yesterday, after patching a fist-shaped indent in the wall, I decided to catch up on the news. The plan was to find out how much of the country was left, and see if I’d have to move up my plans to buy an arctic bunker. Instead, I learned about Tide pods. And I laughed.

Thank you for poisoning yourselves. Reading about the twenty-plus Americans hospitalized by detergent brought me back to life. In the middle of a stalled R train, I giggled like a tide-pod chewing idiot. My friend asked why. I told her that multiple people had nearly died. She didn’t pursue the topic further.

When you bite into a Tide pod, you’re not just filtering the gene pool. You’re spreading hope. You’re showing misanthropes that there’s something to live for. Namely, watching you die.

Pod chewers are the martyrs of our era. The toxic foam in their blood carries the burdens of people in need, and induces seizures of honor. In a way, a Tide pod is like a medal. A delicious medal, which should be eaten immediately. Remember to record it.

You might call drawing strength from the pain of other’s perverse. But who’s to say they’re suffering? Can you really know what they’re feeling without eating the pod yourself? If you don’t have the strength to swallow the pod, then you don’t have the strength to speak for others. And if you have, your opinion doesn’t matter. Because you eat Tide pods.

The Onion knew the truth: children can’t get enough of that chalky blue goodness. Neither can adults, and it would be arrogant to deny it to either of them. Let this play out, and I won’t have to spend a minute with a therapist.

There are countless ways to kill yourself. Thank you for choosing the one that saved me.

Sincerely,

Blind Monkey

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