No, don't slam your hand on your keyboard, go "Dietrich is 'ridiculuz!" and close this browser window. I know the majority (well, all) of my blogs are me ranting on about emotion and how much it sucks to be a teenager, but carry on.
If Jesus was still alive, he would eat Pop-Tarts for breakfast. These things are perfect. It's like everything about them is the best ever. From the moment the sweet aura of artificial chocolate and mixed berries permeates your nostrils, it is too late to turn back. Your teeth sink into the sweet pastry, and the syrup and preservatives fill your mouth with delicious synthetic happiness.
Plus you can do ANYTHING with these things. You can freeze 'em, toast 'em, eat 'em plain, plus you can take 'em anywhere. They are the pinnacle of portable junk food. Who needs Pringles when you have a virtually infinite variety of flavors at your fingertips? They have Chocolate Chip Cookie Dough, French Toast, Ice Cream Sunday... Hell, what's next? Deodorant flavor?
Don't forget, I love Pop-Tarts. When I bite into them it's like an angel comes down and wraps it's feathery wings around my tongue. I can't express my adoration for Pop-Tarts in words. They are warm or cold or whatever temperature you want (assuming you don't, like BOIL them or anything) but no matter what stasis they reside in I love them anyways. Pop Tarts are, in all senses of the words, "Crazy Good".
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