It’s fecal, is what it is. A primordial ooze. Any minute now, I expect a creature to rise from it, choke itself down my throat, reanimate me into a puppet to control. I believe something this sinister could have that capacity.
I made a mistake, buying this shit. I always forget how awful it is. Nutritionally speaking, of course, I’m sure it’s a far sight more healthy than my usual fare. But the look of it, God, the texture! It creates a microcosm of a sewer upon my very knife! An indolent, wretched parody of a foodstuff!
Witness me! Smearing it grotesquely across these apple slices. It makes me want to vomit, but it’s the only thing I have in. I can’t cook, because to cook would mean having to do the dishes, and to do the dishes would be to wave the white flag in the sink-based war of attrition currently ongoing in between me and Darcy-June (cryptid, Keter class, codename Roommate 2).
Now, she’s bought the right kind. (Proving she is indeed sentient— long under debate.) JIF, baby, JIF. I see it there on her pantry shelf. I could take it, right now— she’s sleeping, I believe, or perhaps in some kind of stasis. Without witnesses, I could dip my finger in. Creamy, fatted, sugared, no liquid layer to speak of, just pure prepared processed peanuts. I’m close to ecstasy at the very thought. What kind of sinful irony is this, that I have a full jar that probably cost double the price of hers, right in front of me, but it makes me sick even to look at?
It’s the oil, I swear it’s the oil. I’m being anointed against my will by it as we speak. I’ll be unwillingly marked on the forehead with a sigil using the oil of Trader Joe’s organic peanut butter and that greasy demon will be forced into me. I’ll have blood running out of my eyes and ears until it turns, yes, brown and gloopy.
What’s worst of all is, after the abhorrent ritual is complete… I’ll still have to refrigerate the damn jar.