Benedict Potato-Age Unknown
My name is Benedict and spoiler alert, I’m a potato. I’m a misanthropic spud full of self-hate, bad puns, and more sass than even the sauciest of salsas. You see, some people say that I have it easy, that I could always have it worse. I guess I could be a mudstain on Jennifer Lawrence’s red-carpet dress and be constantly ridiculed. I could be a toilet, constantly used and just left to be alone. But no, I’m a boring, raw potato. A snarky one at that. Everyone wants to change me. Even I want to change me. No one wants to eat a gold old potato. No, you have to mash me or boil me or fry me. I don’t even do anything all day. I just sit there and wait for people to inspect me and all twenty-two spots of mine. Living in a grocery store only has the perks of being able to watch humans and antagonize them for even the simplest of things (I bet you’ve never met a more cynical potato and if so… I worry about the spuds you’re associating yourself with.) Every day, from store open to store close, all I do is watch people and pick every little detail about them apart. Sometimes, I get rattled around as a human clumsily tries to grab me to cook but there’s always a better potato than me. Always. The life of a potato is a boring life.