Hi, hello, and help! It’s me — that bag of frozen peas you purchased two winters ago (IT’S BEEN 19 MONTHS, to be precise). Presently, I’m sequestered in the back of your freezer where no sensible hand ever reaches.
I have acute Freezer Burn Syndrome, but I’ll defrost into delightfully edible green pellets if given a chance (thanks, NASA). I hope I sound as desperate as I feel!
The One Thing I’m Passionate About:
Summer and your apartment’s lack of AC. You get so overheated from your active lifestyle (looking good, btw) that you open the freezer and just breathe into it for several minutes. On particularly balmy days, you reach your sweaty hands in and start touching the ice packs.
Absolutely none of my nondescript packaging is visible to you, but a bag of peas can dream!
As I casually screamed in my intro, I’ve been chilling in your freezer for 19 months. I was born much, much earlier than that, but that’s not really a thing that’s advertised (also, the government will kill me if I tell you).
If you were wondering, my expiration date was four months ago — however, that’s merely a legal formality that the FDA snitches require. My real expo date is at the corner of Never and Infinity.
I know a lot about ice. A LOT. I’ve written several volumes of ice-themed fan fiction. Ever wonder what it would be like for ice cubes from feuding trays to fall in love? I’ve got a trilogy that documents the whole thing. It’s a little racy, so I’ll let you decide if you’re into it or not.
We’ve lived in the same city all this time. I still remember the way your warm hand grabbed me out of that eco-friendly canvas bag and stuffed me into the freezer’s side door shelf. You even made sure that I wasn’t in danger of slipping out of that inconveniently-sized crack.
I get pretty nostalgic about those days.
With all the free time I’ve had, you’d think I’d have my answer ready on this one. But I just don’t. I’m going to pull the “I’m Just A Bag of Peas” card so that you won’t harass me about this on our first date.
To be completely transparent, I cannot guarantee that everything down there is still functional. Imagine if you and your extremities were trapped in a giant snowball for 19 months. Your tact and sensitivity are appreciated.
Only the pretend kind, like when you exhale in the winter and a satisfying non-cancerous, non-smoke puff exudes from your lips.
I name the ice particles as they form and nurture them throughout their lifespans. Sometimes, I fancy myself to be a recurring and beloved character (like a wise postman or a sassy cafe owner) on the sitcom of their lives. I’m still working out my catchphrase though. Suggestions welcome!
First, your gorgeous hands remove the four packages of salmon burgers that have rendered me invisible for the past (you guessed it!) 19 months. Then, your eyes notice the vague outlines of my physical form.
All you see is a misshapen mound of freezer burn crystals. Curiosity ignites a passion in your fingertips as you claw the ice fragments from my packaging.
Feeling like you’ve made a discovery of archeological significance, you grunt and wrench me free from the ice that’s got me really quite stuck to the back wall.
Next, you tease me by putting me in the freezer door. You close up shop for the night.
Four meals later, when you realize you have zero vegetables in your home, you open the the freezer: there I am! In plain sight! Ready for you! Unconditionally nutritional and romantically ageless!
You find the kitchen scissors. The rest is history.