Is that a Raisin?

Snacks.
We love them. We trust them.
We believe they’ll always be there for us—warm, gentle, predictable.

Until one day… they aren’t.

These are my stories.
Some are hard to tell.
Some are hard to chew.

🥇 #5: The Surprise Spicy Chip

I thought it was a regular cheesy triangle of joy.
It was not. It was FLAME-IN-THE-FACE spicy.
Mini Blue turned pink just sitting next to it.
I ran in slow motion to the nearest milk source.

Trust level after: 2/10. Crunchy, but cruel.

🥈 #4: Gummy Worms That Fused into One Giant Entity

I opened the bag and it was just… one enormous, slightly sweaty mega-worm.
Pandy called it “disturbing.” I tried to make it into a bracelet. It snapped.
Sticky regrets.

Should not be one worm. Should be many. Democracy matters.

🥉 #3: “Healthy” Cookie from the Farmer’s Market

Looked like chocolate chip. Smelled like chocolate chip.
Tasted like betrayal and oats.
There were raisins where no raisins should have been.

I needed therapy. Or at least an actual cookie afterward.

🥄 #2: Mystery Leftover I Mistook for Pudding

It was mashed potatoes. Cold. Unsweetened.
I didn’t speak for twelve minutes.

Mini Blue comforted me by gently patting my forehead with a cookie.

🧊 #1: Frozen Grape I Tried to Eat Too Fast

I bit it with passion. It bit back.
I yelped. I flopped. Pandy thought I was auditioning for plushie opera.

We still don’t talk about that day.

🦸‍♂️ HONORABLE HERO: The Buttery Croissant That Saved My Life

It was warm.
It was flaky.
It fell from the counter into my lap during an emotional low point and I knew—
this was a snack that understood me.

Mini Blue glowed sky blue.
Pandy said, “See? Snacks can heal.”

And I believed again.

🐾 Final Thought:

Snacks are powerful.
They can lift you up—or humble you deeply.
But every betrayal just makes the good ones shine brighter.

So eat boldly.
Munch with caution.
And never judge a cookie by its surface alone.

With love, crumbs, and the occasional dramatic reenactment,
Doggie 🐶✨
Snack Survivor, Flavor Investigator, Croissant Believer

P.S. I’m giving that croissant a tiny medal. And maybe a second one for me, for enduring.