I Am The Crushed CLIF Bar At The Bottom Of Your Purse

Please release me from this torturous hellscape and throw me out.

Fresh from my box, under my crinkly wrapper, I am 260 calories with 10 grams of protein, 17 grams of sugar, and 41 grams of glorious carbohydrates all encased in organic (and ethically sourced) Dark Chocolate. I am the one snack in the world that has the potential to fuel you if you were to…leap from a burning building while holding a box of kittens, attempt to outrun a rabid wild boar or swim away from steel-jawed barracudas. Instead, I was just a snack before a mid-quarter finance review.

At 11:56, Bryce (that try-hard asshole in the cubicle next door) scheduled a “touch base” for noon, which would inevitably leave your stomach growling during your forecast meeting. You saw me as your savior and grabbed me from the office break room cabinet. But, surprise! It was Kaylee (or is it Kylee?) the intern's last day, and a cake was wheeled into the meeting. Sheer obligation to Kaylee/Kylee forced you to eat that cheap, tawdry grocery store cake instead of me- but it shattered my heart the same way Jolene crushed Dolly’s soul.

Not wanting to waste the free snack “perk” of your midlevel job, you threw me into your purse and left for the day. At that exact moment, my identity changed tragically from a dignified CLIF Bar to a doomed “Purse Bar.” It’s a fate worse than death. Purse Bars seldom make it out intact and die a slow grizzly death…crushed like in that garbage compactor scene in Star Wars. Garbage compactors, junk drawers, glove compartments…they‘re all the stuff of nightmares to us.

My hopes to be eaten were raised as you sat motionless in traffic later that evening. Knowing that you had over an hour of shifting uncomfortably on the bleachers at the community center ahead of you, I thought my time to serve had finally come. Twice a week, in the stifling humid air, you watch your kid thrash around like a deranged otter. However, the chlorine smell makes you nauseous… so trapped in your dark tomb I remained. I drifted deeper into your purse as you stuffed a wad of printouts on top of me. Pages heavy with insightful feedback about your child’s backstroke from his teenage instructor Jordan weighed upon me, pushing me further into the deep dark abyss of your purse. Now flattened, I languished for what seemed like an eternity in a paralyzed undead state.

Later that week, I resurfaced briefly during your son’s meltdown at Target. Unceremoniously pulling off a moist, hairy piece of gum stuck to my wrapper did not help my appeal. Unless he’s starving on a deserted island and faced with the possibility of gnawing off his skinny limb to survive, he’s not going to eat me. Not now.

The mortal wound came 2 days later as you shoved a free Jiffy Lube pen in your purse while waiting for your car. I was instantly impaled. After the fatal jab, I began slowly bleeding out. My guts went everywhere…in the zipper of your open wallet, around a pair of broken readers at the grimy bottom of your purse. Chunks of me are now stuck to an uncapped cherry chapstick. More of my gooey innards have fused 2 pennies, several orange Tic Tacs, and a free carwash coupon from Steve’s Auto into a peanut butter -banana-scented tumor.

Everyone can see how mutilated and grotesque I’ve become except you. From the bottom of your purse, I am begging you to throw me out. Don’t even worry about separating what's left of me for the compost bin. It’s too late for that kind of dignified burial. It’s time to toss my corpse in the trash where maybe I’ll nourish a rat on its way to the subway and power his afternoon with the remains of my flesh. Please, my time has come. Have mercy and let me go.