Okay one more story before I go back to writing things that provide income:
The guy who rented out my Nashville house was an online candy man. He spent his living dividing candy into individual colors and flavors and selling them in bulk online. I cannot for the life of me remember what his company was called, but I vaguely remember his first name being Dwayne or Hank or like... something old-manish but not super unconventional? (There's a lot of that part of my life that I don't remember and my therapist told me it's good that my brain figured out how to recognize dysfunction and life-terror and chose to just not absorb any of it. I'm a fucking wizard you guys.)
I told Dwayne Hank Old Manish that I loved orange Tootsie Pops right before I told him that the house constantly had centipedes and worms so big they looked like snakes. Tennessee blows, you guys. LOL. He was all, do you have ant problems? Cos I sell candy? And ants love candy? And I was like NO BUT WE HAVE CENTIPEDES AND ONE TIME I SAW A FURRY POLKA DOTTED ONE CLIMBING UP THE STAIRS BUT I DON'T THINK IT EVER ATE MY CANDY.
Unnecessary story kinda long, he was obsessed with the house and to thank me for putting in a good word to my landlords, he sent me a giant bag of orange Tootsie Pops and that's all I ate the week leading up to my move back home and also while driving home.
And I'm eating one now. But not from him. From Halloween. Christ, you guys. The story had no point.