A Single 30-Year-Old’s Conscience Considers the Popcorn that Just Fell Onto the Area Rug In His Studio Apartment

Go on, do it. Do it! There are no rules here, in this place.

Go on. You and I live alone. No witnesses. Just pick it up and eat it. There are no rules here, in this place; this place where machine gun sound effects erupt from 30-year-old vocal cords during Netflix viewings of Transformers: Dark of the Moon, much as they did back in the 80s when the cartoon version demanded your attention. Hell, those two pieces of fine cinema even have some of the same voice actors! That’s the kind of cyclical shit that puts the ol’ “completely acceptable” stamp on whatever you do. Ergo, Jackers, in this bastion of secrecy and perpetually open bathroom doors, nothing goes to waste.

This includes the popcorn you just dropped onto the area rug at your feet.

Just bend over and grab it. Here in your fortress of solitude and weekend-long Pawn Stars viewing parties for one, a man is in the right when he stoops down from high atop his Ikea Klippan loveseat, plucks burst kernels from their temporary resting places on the brown-and-blue-striped 4x6 footer, and utterly enjoys the enhanced mineral crunch that six months without vacuuming grants any accidentally discarded treat. What’s that mother? Eat more fiber? I will! I will, mother! If only you could see the delectable movie theater butter slathered roughage that awaits my intestines now!

Besides, Jack, are you really going to tell me the guy who worked on a three-act nude pop-n-lock dance routine after his 30-minute shower earlier this morning somehow sprouted some semblance of self-respect since that pride-free number unfolded behind closed Venetian blinds? Let’s get real: you checked self-respect at the door the moment you went to a wear-it-for-a-week underwear schedule because you “generally don’t sweat all that much anyway,” and now it’s time to reward yourself with that last little bit of organic matter nestled into the synthetic fibers of a $14.99 Target rug.

So get to it already. Stoop! Stoop! Lean forward and steady yourself on dilapidated limbs as you gaze upon the majestic bounty that is your studio apartment floor. There’s perfectly good Pop Secret on the ground right now, its abstract form still glistening with freshness and the faintest wisp of steamy warmth, and you are the man who’s going to eat it!

Reach, damn you, reach! You’re almost there! Now grasp that airy lightness with greasy fingers and ignore the impossibly long strand of hair affixed to its side. Sure it’s not yours and no girl’s been here in more than a year, but that’s most certainly human, which just means it’s organic, right? Organic is hip right now. Organic is cool — cool and damp just like that popcorn will be if you don’t open up and toss it back soon.

Ahh. Yes! There it is. I can hear it: The satisfying crunch of victory and the triumph of wanton inhibition over society’s accepted norms. I’m proud of you, kid, I really am. You’ve matured so much these past few minutes and I’m happy to see you’ve finally accepted that everything you need to survive in this crazy world is right here at your feet, and with me, in this 200-sq-ft. studio apartment.

And…oh my. What pray-tell is that I spy across the way? There, near the galley kitchen! A salted peanut, sitting idly on the no-name non-slip floor mat? Indeed it is! But rest easy for now, my sweet popcorn prince. The present adventure was a trying ordeal. There’s no rush, none at all. I hear peanuts stay fresh forever.