There’s a Texture and eurgh oh God oh fuck it’s everywhere, according to you.

You had decided to wash the dishes without gloves – because gloves are also a Texture – when your hand brushed against a bit of wet peanut butter. Now that the peanut butter is on your hand, you regret every decision that has led up to this point, including your parents’ decision to have you.

Initial attempts to rinse it off have proven unsuccessful; the oily residue on your hand has stolen all coherent thought from your mind, and all you want is for someone to flay you alive so you never have to experience a Texture again.

The peanut butter has somehow made its way to your wrist, and oh no it’s gone on your sleeve too and eurgh it’s made everything sticky and when you get to work you won’t be able to explain that you can’t do your job today because of peanut butter.

Even when you successfully manage to scrub away the last of the peanut butter, its memory will stain your hands, causing you to experience a level of anguish previously only felt by Lady Macbeth.

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