He was the silent, sophisticated type, and I worshipped him from both near and far. It was hard for me to be near him without feeling an overwhelming sense of longing. Even as a young woman, I knew he was the one for me, that I’d never find anyone more perfect than him.
Over the years, even though I tried to stay away from him, even though I knew it was wrong, there were times when I just couldn’t stay away, when I had to be with him, when I just had to take him home with me. We’d steal a few hours here and there, when we could, when no one else was around.
Curtains drawn, we’d sit by the fire, and I’d indulge in him, consume him, taste him, and it was always perfect. We never argued – we didn’t have time for arguments. We had frenzied moments, where I couldn’t get enough, couldn’t be satisfied, when I’d take and take and take all he could offer.
And then, embarrassed and disgusted by my lack of control, I’d swear I’d never do it again. I’d keep him at arm’s length, I’d refuse to make eye contact when we were in the same room, I’d do everything I could to maintain my composure. Ah, it was so hard, he was so perfect, and I was so much in love.
I loved the old Mr. Peanut. I really did. And then they went and made him look like Al Roker… and they made him talk… and they ruined it for me!