juice boxes
Juice boxes are to blame for my irrational thirst.
There is no other logical explanation for my un-tamable desire to consume beverages beyond my typically allotted portions. It has evolved from an obsession to inhale as many of my unlimited refills as possible at a restaurant, to a full-on stare-down with competitors at the dinner table. If you want to see me mad, challenge me for the last serving of water from the family Brita pitcher. That's the easiest way to ruin my day. If there is one thing I demand from another in a social setting, it is that they surrender "shared" beverages to me should I desire them. Continue to gorge yourselves on your yams and water lilies with your inefficient chewing motions; my throat will be curdling in ecstasy as I effortlessly suck down cool refreshments.
But no, I don't think it was always like this. In fact, it wasn't. As I greedily count my remaining Capri-Sun pouches, ensuring no one has been tampering with my Mountain Cooler cache in the fridge, I recall the days when this action was what dreams were made of. I cannot remember why I was limited in my juice box lust throughout my childhood; I just know that it was. I don't blame anyone for it, at least not openly, but many-a-night has my pillow endured my salty, dehydrated tears.
Juice boxes bring back the good memories-- the moments where I, like a hummingbird, would rupture the circular foil seals with my angled, plastic straws to get at the sweet nectars inside, and the days when I traded away my lunch for a second drink-- but it also brings back the bad. The moments of unchecked jealousy I endured when someone had a juice box at school, and I didn't, are fresh in my mind. And the seething hatred I harbor for people who were unable to finish these 6.75oz love-boxes is a burden I will carry from this world to the next. Aside from the times I spent collecting ants in the bushes, all I remember about elementary school are my feelings for juice boxes.
But there is still hope for humanity. My esophagus aches for the future day, when upon arriving at a host's house, his/her fridges are brimming with juice boxes of all varieties, which they will reveal to me while dropping to their knees, bemoaning past ways they have thirstily wronged me, and between broken sobs they will cry, "these are all for you, and when you finish them, I will provide you with more." And if you think you have always satisfied my thirst, well, you haven't, and I'll be happy to point out your liquid shortcomings. Repent, you cottonmouthed fools!
Now excuse me as I resume my worship of the Egyptian water-God Nu. And also as I go downstairs to ensure thirst-gremlins haven't been meddling with my juice box supply. I hate those guys.