CS: You are the lovechild of Oreos and a tub of lard. You are sweet, but damn, you understand moderation baby. A spoonful of your creaminess is just enough. Sometimes, when I eat you, I need to make I am not eating zebra shit. Then I taste you and realize even if you are zebra shit, then zebra shit tastes pretty damn good. In the morning I like to eat toast off of you. You are all spread out. Then you melt and drip…and stain my jeans. Stay you. I’ll take you at any time, especially when I watch SportsCenter with my housemates. Besitos mi amor, Carlos.
AK: (see above)
KR: That smooth kid sitting in the back of the class. You think you are all that, don’t you? But NO! The teacher sees right through you, fool. All the babes fall at your feet initially, but you have no depth. During ice-breaker games you whisper during Wah, refuse to screech during pterodactyl… come on. As Nike says, “just do it.” Anything, really. You make me feel indifferent, the days are grayer as soon as you enter a room. Unlike your older brother (will the real cookie butter please stand up) you are supremely subpar. Even your foreign charm falls flat… please just take a step back and re-evaluate, like, everything
MJ: Your grayscale creme is anything but boring — your bumpy texture feels like crushed butterfly wings dipped in marmalade. When I put you in my mouth, it’s like I sat down on the most comfy couch in the whole world but then it wasn’t a couch at all, it was a cloud and the pillows were EVEN MORE COOKIE BUTTER. While my mother might yell at me for eating you out of the jar, I can’t resist. In the words of William Shakespeare who once tasted cookie butter: “Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day? Thou art more lovely and delicious as hell.”