Fruit Roll-Ups are weird...

I've always been a pretty accepting person, I like to think. I've always tended to roll with even the strangest or the most random things, but I think that part of my personality is waning a little as a grow older.
Don't get me wrong, I still love the random, thrive on it actually. My roommate and I are currently in a random sticky note war. I've come to the conclusion that we should change tactics in the war in Iraq from fighting to sticking Post-Its all over each others desks when the other isn't in the room. Few things can brighten a day like walking into your room and seeing a sea of orange (or blue in my case) sticky notes over every visible surface of your desk. I'm just sayin...someone in Washington should consider it.
Something that I can't seem to get over in my old age; however, is how strange a substance fruit roll-ups are. I just received two fruit roll-ups in my "finals care package" that my mother sent me and I was soo excited because I do believe it's been years since I actually ate a fruit roll-up. I do believe I still had a lunch-box and a thermos the last time I ate one.
So, I excitedly tore it open, but then I stopped suddenly at the strange texture of it. I don't remember them being so weird before. They're kind of like rubber...or plastic? Actually they kind of look like Reynolds plastic wrap (I hate that stuff) only like...orange and red and stuff. They're not quite as dense as taffy, or Airheads. But they're still stretchy like elastic. Does anyone know a person who makes fruit roll-ups by profession? Cause if you do I'd like to talk to them.

I ate them anyways by the way. They were delicious.

Clutter Keeper

It’s official, I’m a sappy note-keeper. Whenever someone writes something nice to me, whether that be on a sticky note, or a torn piece of paper, I just can’t bring myself to get rid of it. I currently have three sticky notes at random places on my lap top from my roommate. I can probably find a handful of handwritten, silly letters from friends in the top drawer of my desk. I have a crayon drawing of my name sticking on the back of my desk chair. At home in my bedroom I have an inside joke present still from a girl who I don’t even speak to anymore. I physically cannot throw them away.
Even a year later when my mom goes through her annual “oh my god, this room is a disaster” phase and I once again find myself sifting through the reasonable clutter of my room, I find things from friends, I smile, I sit and re-read them, and then I panic. “What should I do with this!?” I think. I stand and start to walk towards the trash can, but I always stop. It’s like my legs suddenly become heavy as I think about the memories that come with that note, or that random drawing, and I just. can’t. do. it. So, it goes into a better spot; a spot safer from my mother’s anal gaze and there it stays with the rest of them. Don’t judge me.