MONOLOGUE: I'M THE LITTLE PLASTIC SQUARE THING ON YOUR BREAD

Sometimes, with all of the research papers and formal writing we're forced to pump out in college, you just need to take a break and write something completely off the wall. (Trust me, you do.) So here is a monologue from the little plastic square thing on your bread.

You're welcome.

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Hey. Hey you. You with the face, staring at this loaf of bread. I know you're not used to paying any attention to me, but if you can hold off from tearing me off this bag and hear me out for like, two minutes, I'd really appreciate that. Okay thanks.

For starters, you don't even call me by my proper name. It's always "rectangular twist tie," or "that square thing," or "the little chunk of plastic holding the bread together." And you're wrong. The name's BREAD CLIP, OKAY?! Bread Clip. Why doesn't anyone know that?

I know you think I'm just a rounded square made of plastic. And you're right, I am. And yes, a lot of things are made of plastic. But how many of those things are designed specifically to make sure that your bread stays fresh until its printed expiration date? Yeah. NOT MANY THINGS.

And we're not all the same, either. We bread clips come in all different colors--blue, green, white, yellow—we're extremely diverse. But I wouldn't expect a numbskull like you to appreciate that. Also, the fact that this bread says "wheat" on it does not mean that you're being healthy when you slather it with Nutella. Or that you can now justify those two packages of Ho-Ho's you have in your left hand. Yes, I saw them.

Do you think I ENJOY sitting on the counter and watching your bread start to mold and not being able to do anything about it? You bring home that loaf of bread and then go eat out for a few days, and BAM your bread is disgusting and I have to sit here on top of a decaying sack of yeast. Yeah, you're right. It DOES suck. Eat your freaking bread, people.

But even that's better than being completely disregarded by people. YOU KNOW WHO YOU ARE. Those people who think they can just twist up the opening of the bag and tuck it under the bread and leave me on the counter, throw me in the trash, or, heaven forbid, banish me to the filthy dust fest going on underneath their fridge. It's DISGUSTING.

I understand—I'm small. I'm flimsy. I don't seem very important. But you know what? I AM, gosh dangit. I'm the only thing keeping the bread you purchase at the store from succumbing to the repugnant plague that is premature mold. I am the Prince of Partition, the Sultan of Segregation, the LITTLE PIECE OF PLASTIC ON YOUR BREAD BAG.

And I just need a hug.