Snack bar, thank you for existing. Because of you, I can work late into lunch, go a mere few floors down, and obtain indulgences to consume minutes after leaving my work behind. Then as my body turns your edible nutriments into milk, I can pump half an hour before trial resumes in the afternoon session. Your selections aren’t varied or healthy, but they are readily available. That’s good enough for me on days like this.

Oh, tuna salad sandwich on wheat, why are you sweet? I mean that literally. Wherefore art thou so sweet? Did they put sugar in your ample mayonnaise? Is that relish in there? Well, whatever the reason, at least the fishy part of you lays between what I assume to be wheat bread given the color, although I guess it could be food coloring to give the appearance of nutrition. I did feel a little bad after throwing your wrapper away, with the sticker on it displaying an expiration date of 5/18. I had selected you because the only other tuna sandwich had an expiration date of 5/16. I didn’t realize until after getting back to my computer that 5/16 is today. What will happen to the other sandwich that I’d left there, looking through the refrigerated glass at potential customers like so many pound puppies and kitties? If nobody picks it today, does it just go to waste? If the prior owners of the snack bar were still there, they’d simply change the sticker and the sandwich would magically be given new life.

And oh, Cheetos, I’ve saved the best for last. Ah, Cheetos, my familiar old friend. You taste of theatres flashing movies like “Mo’ Money” and “Jurassic Park.” Each persistent crunch calls to mind footfalls on a high school hallway traveling between second period P.E. and third period English II Honors. There were days when the ignorance of teenagerhood made you regular company, a time when 320 calories per serving of deep-fried corn meal did not bring with it a concern of lesser-quality milk to feed an infant. (Of course, back in the early ’90s, I’d thought “Allie” would be 11 years old by now.) It’s been a year without you and I’ve succumbed to your bright orange siren call twice this week, unable to resist your crinkly bag depicting promises of miniature Neanderthal clubs in the identical unnatural hue used to paint your speedy mascot. Until and unless shown that your “Artificial Color [including Yellow 6]” appears in my milk production, I shall not regret today’s walk down memory lane.