Idiosyncratic

Ever since blueberries have come into season this year, dropping their normal astronomical purchase value from in excess of $4.99 to a mere $1.50 per pint, I have been subsisting on a ramekin's worth of blueberries and a portioned size of cottage cheese for the bulk of my lunches.  I meticulously sort through the pint container, carefully discarding the stems, shriveled loners, and all the otherwise non-Aryan blueberries.  The chosen few who've made the cut then proceed to be blasted by the coldest bacteria-caustic water which is able to be pumped from the ground.  A minutes worth of swishing, rubbing, and draining [repeatedly] yields my perfect ramekin of blueberries.  Now, this process, for be, in joyous - it ensures that my eating experience will be sublime, unhindered by the unexpected crunch of a stem, effectual insofar as to satisfy my need for a good meal.  The process which involves the peeling off of the cottage cheese container is the one which seeks to burn my core.  Every container, EVERY container which I have unsealed, no matter what my angle, speed, or pull-pressure, seems to want to ensure that a little piece of it still exists when the bulk of it is gone, like a whore in the old movies who would leave that handkerchief for the jock to find and, consequentially, return it.  For me, it is not a handkerchief - it is a piece of colorful foil which sits on the rim, glued, staring me in the face with every bite of cottage cheese which I may so choose to proceed in hoovering into my open gullet.  THAT bothers me; I dig in with my fingers and fingernails in order to loose the wretch from its last stand, throwing the lot of it into the trash can.  Call me idiosyncratic, or maybe just a little OC, but I am who I am, and that foil will never be left on the pristine white plastic which encases my lunch.  Fuck.