As I walked down the path, and smelled the cold and tasted the breeze, I saw you.

You sat there so regally in your snowy throne, I could not believe my eyes. Your package bore the Royal Insignia, ‘QUAKER.’ I know not how you traveled so far from your customary pantry seat; your lack of legs makes such an arduous journey nothing less than a miracle. The stains upon your package leave me mystified—could you be Peach Flavored, or are you Pear? Have I stumbled upon Pea flavor? Seldom has such an OATMEAL been observed. But your flavor matters little to me, ‘tis only the scape of your majesty that matters to me now.

At what cost, though, OATMEAL? You stay stained and soaked, sitting on your seat of power. You will never be warm and welcoming. You will never fill the belly of anyone—which you have told me is the true desire of an OATMEAL—you will only ever be wet and cold in the snowbank. You will only go to waste, my dear OATMEAL. Doomed to adorn the slush: GARBAGE.

But is that the end, OATMEAL? Do you choose to accept your fate?