Every day, a particular something reminds me of apple jam.
I wouldn’t say I like apple jam, but I buy it quite often.
I am not good at making it myself.
Cooked apples give me the creeps.
All right, I admit it, I buy it for the cute jar it comes in.
It looks good sitting next to the bottle of ketchup in my kitchen cabinet.
I like ketchup.
Though nothing reminds me of ketchup much.
Except for blood.
Gosh, I wish I could love the blood-red apple jam that tastes nothing like ketchup!
I hate myself for treating it the way this world treats us sometimes.
Hating us for the things it cannot control about us.
Measuring us against those it deems perfect!