Sitting in front of me, resting comfortably in the snug confines of a lightweight cardboard carton partially shaded by clear cellophane, within easy reach of my quick and agile fingers, glittering in all its green sugary goodness, awaiting its certain demise is a marshmallow in roughly the shape of a chick, the last of my Easter Peeps.
I do not recall paying this much attention to the other 9 Peeps that crowded this box. They found their way to my mouth without too much effort on my part and with no resistance on theirs. (I should hate to be as mindless and as lacking in self-direction as a Peep.) I'm quite sure I did, in fact, ingest these petite confectionery delights. No one else in the household has developed a taste for them; that is to say that their palates have not evolved to a point that allows them to appreciate the abundance of sweetness and gooiness that is the essence of a Peep.
Dear reader, please tell me what occasion would merit the ceremonious consumption of this, my final Peep? I cannot find it in my heart to put it out of existence in one greedy gulp just because it would taste so yummy. Give me a reason.