An Open Letter To People Who Eat Reese’s Puffs, from a Reese’s Puff

Dear People Who Eat Me,

I would like to begin by saying that I understand, and I’m not mad. I’m not mad at all. If I were human, I would eat me too. I’m delicious. I’ve been told this since the beginning. So let’s get that out of the way: I ain’t mad. In fact, I’m a little bit jealous. You see, if I ate Reese’s Puffs, I’d be committing all types of wrong. Social norms and such, ‘eating your own kind.’ So, am I mad? No. Jealous? Absolutely.

I do feel a little worried, though. I mean, as a Reese’s Puff, you never really know when it’s coming. You know what I’m talking about. One second you’re just chilling in your box with hundreds of your homies, and the next second you’re being dumped into a bowl of skim milk. Soon you’re being poked and prodded with a big silver spoon. And then who knows what happens after that. ‘The great unknown.’ I’ve heard stories from Puffs that have fallen from the spoon while on their way to that big, dark tunnel—never in the same shape they were in when they left. But they say that Puffs that enter that tunnel go into ‘a transformation.’ The Puffs that come back look gnarled and battered. Man, who really knows what happens—but I do know that most Puffs don’t come back. 

So I wait. And that’s what I’m trying to tell you, person who eats me. My life is all about waiting. And I do it for you. So the next time you open your box of Puffs, maybe just think for a second about what I’m sacrificing, and what you’re gaining.