On popcorn, and perhaps also, on larger problems Alice tends to muck herself up in.
White cheddar popcorn is supposed to be one of those snacks you savor somewhat, oh, I dunno, daintily, I guess. The shape of popcorn demands a one-at-a-time consumption if you’re not to look like a complete slob. Not that anyone actually does this.
No. Listen. I’m serious.
Popcorn is served in such venues—movies, fairs—that call for this carefree, devil-may-care sort of enjoyment, right? An air of, “Oh, I’m not really eating this for sustenance. I’m eating this for the Victorian (or possibly, Edwardian) wonderment that we might partake of this popped corn for the sheer amusement of it all. Ho-ho!”

But instead of carnivals, I always seem to end up eating popcorn, oh, on my break at my hourly-waged job in the break room underneath the fluorescent light, when I’m really hungry. I tear open the bag and—the problem of Slobbery, it’s compounded by the fact of this dusting of cheddar cheese and quite possibly and probably, MSG—I start really enjoying the taste and the texture and everything about the popcorn too much, and instead of taking small, genial bites, I’m soon grabbing these craven handfuls, loading my mouth. I get dissatisfied with those moments between the popcorn-in-the-mouth moments. I become completely greedy, ugly and white-dust-spittley-fingered. Someone who hopes to God that no one else will walk into the break room while I’m making such a raging fool of myself, eating this popcorn. Someone whom, at any rate, they certainly wouldn’t want for their friggin’ popcorn ad.