The room is dimly lit and sparsely furnished in the Scandinavian style. In the room’s center, on a table made of blonde wood, a soft orange reflection surrounds the delicious confection, still in its wrapper. With dark-ringed eyes, perhaps the product of a makeup artist gone awry, possibly the product of a crying jag, but looking even more like a heroin addict’s glaze, the woman considers the sweet item before her. She is as sparsely finished as the room, skeletal with little padding.

The Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup returns her stare impassively.

It has been years since the woman felt hunger – she trained herself long ago. What is it, then, about this candy creation that draws her so? Is it the calories her body so desperately needs? Has she accepted the brainwashing of the confection industry as easily as the fashion industry had taken her long before?

She considers. No, it must be none of these things.

If she can summon the will to eat this chocolate delight, she knows that the all-seeing eye of Everything2 will know, and she will be immortalized, in the halls of the Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup Eaters.

She reaches for the wrapped candy, reluctantly at first, tears it open, and brings it to her mouth. It seems to her that the process takes an eternity – nibbling slowly at the edges, not tasting, not feeling, just slowly consuming, until the candy is gone. Finally, she is done.

As sobs wrack her body, she jumps up. The chair falls to the ground behind her in a clatter of wood on tile as she sprints to the bathroom door, to return the candy to the outside world.

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