My aversion towards fruity pebbles goes as far back as I could remember. My brother and I would sit opposite each other at the kitchen table, with two different cereal boxes hovering over our faces like giant iphones. Except, the cellphone craze came years later and it was ironically those cereal box games that disrupted any form of communication. Isaac always went for the fruity pebbles, and I in disgust, always opted for the cocoa pebbles.
I dislike my cereal like I dislike people—fruity and distasteful. Putting the definition coined by homophobes in the 80’s aside, I define the fruity person as overly exuberant in an irksome-like way. Think jolly McDonald’s drive through employee whose smile is glued to her face like Bruce Jenner’s after he got a face-lift. Only you know her smile is real because making $7.25 an hour isn’t going to get you bupkiss, much less a face lift.
Don’t take my cynicism the wrong way. The fruity person is akin to the early bird that catches the worm, the pet peeve who gets into a great college, and the social butterfly who makes tons of friends. But they are also synonymous to fruity pebbles. And I hate fruity pebbles.
I’ve definitely given them a try. At first you kind of like it. And then you keep eating and realize you can’t have too much of it. When I meet this type of girl at a party I like her at first. She’s friendly! She’s bubbly! And after a while you realize you’re speaking in exclamation points! And you’re trying too hard to keep up
You know something’s seriously wrong when you could hear her high-pitched voice over the music and you’re only saying “what did you say??” out of habit. You just met her and she hugs you as if you were released from Guantanamo Bay and this is your welcome back party. Everything about the conversation seems so… colorful. She could be saying her cat died and all you can hear is “Rainbows!” “Butterflies!” “Unicorns!”
There’s no way of avoiding these people. Believe me, I’ve tried. All you could do is go straight for the cocoa pebbles juxtaposed with their fruity counterpart in aisle 1 and try not to make eye contact with Fred Flintstone's disapproving glare-- or that girl from the party who happens to be roaming the supermarket and is ready to talk your ear off.