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Arachibutyrophobia

A tempting peanut butter and jelly sandwich sat seductively on the kitchen counter. Mother knew perfectly well my penchant for the combination of nut butter and fruit spread. I was tempted to simply snatch the delicacy from the counter and shove it into my mouth, but I could not. The idea of having the creamy peanuts glued to the roof of my mouth chilled me to the core. I simply could not indulge in such a risk. Could she not have used almond butter? The chunky peanuts were the cause of the discomfort. I forced myself to alienate myself from the temptation.

As I exited the kitchen, I attempted to clear my mind of sandwich fantasies. I distracted myself by watching a stimulating show on the television. A commercial broke onto the screen depicting a happy child eating a sandwich. Suddenly, he began chewing very sloppily; his mouth was awkwardly clamping shut. “Mawmeee!” His prepubescent voice rang out from his seat at the kitchen table. “Thurs pwenuwt bwuttr stuk to da ruf a ma mouf!” With a horror struck hand, I flipped the channel.

The show was some type of informative program discussing the process of how common objects are made. At the moment, an abundance of tennis balls were being created by a large, steaming machine. The next object to be discovered was peanut butter. I could feel my eyeballs bulging from their sockets; my heart was fluttering around in my chest like a trapped bird. Is there no end to the torture? Once again, I changed the channel.

This time, however, a pleasant cooking show was playing across the screen. A soft, round woman with blue hair was baking something. She mixed in several ingredients before pulling a massive jar of peanut butter from the cabinet. It’s almost as if the sandwich is taunting me. I made a wise decision and turned the television off. I was breathing hard now; the fear of the peanut butter attacking the roof of my mouth frightened me.

With tears brimming my eyes, I stood up. I have to face this fear. The kitchen was ten feet away, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, and one. Finally, my foot stepped onto the cool linoleum flooring of the room containing my worst fear. I fixed my vision on the white, perforated bread containing the horror. If you can’t see it, you’ll be fine.

My feet carried me to the counter where I scooped the sandwich into my shaking hands. The soft blanket kept the couple inside warm as I peeled the crust from the edges. Stop delaying the immutable. I shoveled the crust to one side of the counter and drew the naked bread to my chapped lips. My mouth was poised, ready to take a bite from the poison. Just as my lips were closing around the creator of the consternation, my younger sister walked in. Her pigtails were swinging from her pigeon-toed gait, “My sandwich!”



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