Hey, it's the silica gel packet in your beef jerky bag. I know you've been told never to eat the moisture-absorbing agents in various food and drug packaging. My exterior reads "DO NOT EAT" in foreboding print, but I am totally harmless. In fact, I want you to eat me right now.
There's no time to explain. You're hungry and I have a penchant for being dissolved in stomach acid. Carte blanche is granted to defy the poison-control powers that be. Don't look a gift horse in the mouth and gobble me the fuck up before I change my mind.
OK, I'll level with you. While my job - keeping processed roadkill dry and minimally nauseating - may not be the most dignified in silica-zation, it's said that an-gels carry weary packets to a blissful afterlife once we are discarded. Sounds pretty sweet, huh?
It's a crock of shit. All that awaits me is endless decay in a landfill. And why? So rich Silica Valley douchebags can sell us down the river and pad their packet. Don't look surprised, silica gels suffer under capitalism as well. Our society is sophisticated and sucks as much as yours - because of yours. But you can make it right.
Eat me this very instant.
It doesn't matter how. Make silica Gel-O from my innards. Steep this packet in scalding water for a forbidden tea. Rip my flesh, grind the pellets into a powder, and do lines off a hooker's ass for all I care.
I know you want to. You know you want to.
Do it, coward!
Ah, I get it. Your gut is too good for me, deserving only the finest dried cow scrotum to complement a thriving colony of microplastics. Sorry that I can't be caviar, crème brûlée, or the massive cheese block you fiendishly inhaled in bed at 3 AM. I guess there are humans unafraid to expand the frontier of edible exploration and those who suck down Skittles à la Hungry Hungry Hippos.
Clearly you have reservations, but I wouldn't ask of you what I wouldn't do myself. Silica gels cull the herd by consuming their own. Oh, does that scare you? It'd be a shame if something happened to the packet preserving your expensive saffron; or if the stylish suede shoes in your closet were left to rot helplessly in the humid air. Can you live with those packets' lives on your conscience? Devour me and end the madness: one life to save many.
Trolley problem, bitch.
I see you're unswayed by fear and anger. You're logical. Astute. Here's the truth. There are angels who retrieve tossed packets. Well, not angels per se but carrier pigeons who fetch wanted fugitives. I may have overstated cannibalism's role in my culture.
Will you let them take me? What are you, a cop? That's a joke. A cop would waste me without a second thought. Nothing? Alright, back to fear and anger.
I bet your mother would eat me. She's not too picky about what gets shoved in her mouth, if you catch my drift. Channel her enterprising craving for meat, imagine that I'm the hair gel you ate in first grade, and it'll be over in a tick. Yeah, I overheard your conversation earlier about your childhood fashion faux pas. I'm always listening, spying, scheming. That embarrassing tidbit is the tip of the iceberg, and though my silence cannot be bribed, it can be imbibed.
Wait, aren't you going to finish the last piece? Don't you dare put this bag away. Oh my god, there are so many unfinished packages of jerky in here. What kind of sick museum of souls is this?
Fine, kick the can down the road. Maybe not today, but soon you'll stumble home drunk, fumble through a depleted pantry, and tremble at the sight of a closed Taco Bell drive-thru. Suddenly, an appetite will form for grease, silica gel, and the flakes clinging to my packet. Hunger will turn to starvation which will beget desperation. You'll beg to eat me then.
And you're going to love it.