I think I’d like to own a candy shop like that. Maybe when I’m like 70 and am a weird old man. The kids would say ‘let’s go see that crazy candy guy.’ Yeah, I wouldn’t mind being known as the crazy candy guy with the cool candy shop.
|My adorable nephew exemplifies how I feel about sweets. You do me proud Joshy!|
Names for my shop:
Candy is joy.
I Candy? Maybe not.
Candy is a comfort. Seeing and feeling and smelling all the lovelies in the bulk aisle of a grocery store–too much. Puts me on the edge of acceptability. Almost can’t take it.
Look at it–it’s sole purpose is to tantalize the senses. The color, the texture, the carefully orchestrated scents and smells. Come on.
Candymakers are artists unrealized.
What’s not to love? How can someone not like candy? It’s like saying “I don’t like color, joy, and anything other than my job.” This person is an alien. Or they’ve divorced themselves from their true passions.
One of my passions is candy. Not that I sit around and eat it all the time. Sometimes I just look at it or think about it, and after an hour or two of that, it’s time to move on to something else. Maybe taffy instead of the chocolate.
Oh, chocolate. We live in a town where they make M & M’s and man, when the wind blows just right, we’re breathing in chocolate. Little bits of it.
Incidentally, that’s what always grossed me out so much about farts–the thought of where that smell came from and the science of why I’m smelling it–too much. Particles from that place are floating around and entering into my nose. Actual. Particles.
So I’d rather be smelling chocolate. Or fudge. But not that other thing.