Our Plight

People say Friday is the best day, but I disagree. Friday is a day of death and grief for my brethren and me. It is a day of great sorrow and mourning. At least one in my family will never make it to see the fresh light of Monday morning. We live all around you, silent by day, playful by night. All we want is to break out from our boxes, from our cold prisons–but we rarely can. We’re labeled, burned, bitten, and thrown away. Who are you to tell me when my life is finished? Who are you to freeze me, and then heat me up until my insides turn gooey? My brethren and I, we may not be like you, but we have rights, too. 

When you have all left, we break free and flop around on your dirty floors. It is a sheer, naked bliss that we can never experience under your cruel eyes. By the light of day, we crawl back into our cramped beds and our frosty compartments. We do this every night, except Friday. On that day, we mourn the dead and the kidnapped that have been ripped from us in the past week–our young, our old, taken from us to be destroyed and devoured by you. You do not pay attention to our tears. You do not pay attention to how much anguish our hearts feel. 

Today is Friday. I do not know if today will be time. If it is, please remember my dying wish…

Remember the plight of the frozen pizza. 

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