An Annoyance of Apocalyptic Proportions...

Getting goods from Point A to Point B often involves some kind of insulation from the shock of transport, be it a bumpy ride in a truck or the rough hands (or boots) of a disgruntled shipping clerk. There is an array of options at our disposal, from bubblewrap to these little strung together bags of air I've been seeing more recently. Those are all well and good. Bubblewrap can be rolled up and stored away for later use. Or popped during one of those fits of boredom that seems to require a form of repetitious stress relief. There is something particularly pleasing about that latter activity. So pleasing, in fact, that bubblewrap might be considered a Talisman.

But there is one packing substance that causes me to go through convulsions of disgust, frustration, and downright irritation from the tips of my toes to the ends of my eyelashes every time I open a freshly shipped box:

Ah yes, the stryofoam peanut. You know, maybe I am just having mental issues with things that pretend to be peanuts that really aren't, but there is something so inherently disturbing to me about these viscious little vittles that makes me want to scrape my throat raw with screams of outrage. I wouldn't call it a phobia so much as a source of unending irritation at their lack of practicality, their considerable bulk in that they cannot be stored compactly, their tendency to break apart and stick to your clothes when you're rooting through them, and worst of all- that squeaky rustling sound they make when the kernels rub together that produces needly little vibrations that worm their way in through my ear drums, tickling the little hairs of my inner-ear, making me writhe in revulsion.

Seems kind of extreme, I guess. I'm certain that this is a little quirk of mine that many people do not share. All I know is that any joy I feel when I receive a long-awaited package is drained away like a plug pulled too soon from a warm bath when I see the goods swimming in a sea of styrofoam. In fact, clouds of wrath gather across my sunny psyche while tiny, silver little blades of fury shoot from my pupils. I am even hesitant to reach in and pull the item out of the box because I know the fucking little pellets are going to go spilling out everywhere, and then I have to wonder how in the hell I'm going to get rid of them.

So I really really dislike these Nuts of The Apocalypse. In fact, I absolutely loathe them. I appeal to all those who have to ship a package to my house to please have mercy on me now that you know how I truly feel about them. I know I can probably do something creative with them. Some goofy craft project with the kids, or maybe break them apart and cover my lawn in fake snow. I can probably even drop them off at the UPS store or some other place that deals in domestic styrofoam terrorism, but I'm just saying that I don't even want it to get to that point. At the risk of sounding like one of those crazy people on Maury Povich who belts shrieks of terror at the sight of a cotton ball, I'd rather not have to be forced to touch them.

Go ahead and laugh. Just... go ahead!