Chalkboards vs. Whiteboards

I was spoiled by the whiteboards at the affluent private school last year. My chisel-tipped Expo pens glided across the boards like a sharpened knife through a peeled banana. Though there was some expense in buying those pens, they were consistent for me: the ink flowed abundant or it didn't. I found comfort in the efficiency of that binary.

But the chalk boards on the East Side are a breeding ground for debauchery. The frail sticks of chalk irrationally break mid-sentence. The pieces roll into the corners of the room, forcing me to bend over and expose my unflattering angles. The friction between pasty chalk and mealy board sends tremors through my whole body. I write the word "warmth" on the board, yet I quiver from an involuntary orgasm induced by chills.

When erasing them, the boards become stubborn palimpsests, unwilling to relinquish the past. I stand in a blizzard of chalk, blinded by shards of diamond dust irritating my eyes. Turning away, my students bluntly state, "You have chalk all over your pants." I look down. White, faded hand prints cover my black slacks. It's as if a phantom fondled me from my blind side, leaving behind a whisper of the one-sided romance we shared.

I cannot have these moments of weakness; I have a fiancée to think about.

I love you, Pop Tarts

Pop Tarts make me smile. For me, the toaster oven in my apartment exists only to warm my crispy, sweet pastries. I don't use a spatula to buffer my relationship to my Pop Tart; I coax it from the still-red toaster oven like a mother holding her newborn for the first time. I gently pass the rectangular treat from hand to hand so the darkened corners of the pastry don't burn my fingers.

And then there's the first bite. My front teeth pierce three layers of euphoria: sugary white frosting, puffy warm pastry, and the gooey fruity filling. My mouth combines the three striated layers, and I french kiss the grooves of my molars filled with a fruit-frosting-pastry symphony.

Some of my skeptical friends criticize my choice to consume Pop Tarts regularly. “Those are for little kids!” “Those are so bad for you.” “You're an adult; why don't you just cook food for yourself?” Excuse me, did I hear you right? Make my own Pop Tarts? That's like asking someone to make a Unicorn.

For me, Pop Tarts are perfection. Pop Tarts are the well-rounded toaster treat. The frosting isn't overly gooey. They don't need to be refrigerated. Sure, there are other cheaper, more delicious, or better-for-you pastries. But Pop Tarts and I are in it for the long haul. Pop Tarts and I have an equal relationship: they taste great, and I return the favor by eating them.

I love you, Pop Tarts.