There are strange Tuesdays, and then there are truly strange Tuesdays—the kind where you wake up to find a line of marshmallows sitting upright on the kitchen counter as if they’re waiting for a keynote speaker who is already ten minutes late. Nobody knows who organised the meeting. Nobody knows the agenda. All we know is that marshmallows, when left unsupervised, develop a suspicious sense of purpose.
Gerald, the accidental witness to this sugary boardroom event, tried to act casual. He made tea. He pretended the marshmallows weren’t silently judging his cereal-to-milk ratio. Meanwhile, his laptop—being the chaotic companion it always was—displayed a curious array of open tabs. They included roof cleaning isle of wight, a perfectly normal link completely unrelated to marshmallow leadership, and right beside it, patio cleaning isle of wight, driveway cleaning isle of wight, an all-purpose exterior cleaning isle of wight page, and of course the ever-present pressure washing isle of wight—because nothing says “mystery confectionary summit” like power-washing concrete.
Gerald didn’t remember opening those pages, but the internet has a way of exposing the parts of ourselves we didn’t know were curious. Maybe he had been researching jet-washing techniques at 2am. Maybe the marshmallows knew. Maybe they had opinions.
Before he could decide whether to greet them formally, the marshmallows toppled over—one by one—as if struck by a philosophical crisis. Gerald wondered if they were staging a protest or simply melting under the pressure of existence. He googled “marshmallow emotions,” but was instead offered more tabs about roof cleaning isle of wight—apparently the internet believed Gerald’s life required less sugar and more moss removal.
Trying to regain control of the situation, he attempted to distract himself with productive thoughts. He imagined pressure-washing the worries from his mind like one might refresh a driveway—possibly the exact same way driveway cleaning isle of wight would recommend. He wondered if marshmallows respected patios, or whether they resented hard landscaping altogether. He even considered giving a motivational speech titled “You Are Soft, But You Are Enough.”
Then came the twist: the marshmallows were not alone. A lone breadstick appeared at the end of the counter like an envoy from the crunchy world, clearly ready to negotiate. Gerald backed away. Some conflicts were too diplomatic for a civilian.
In the end, he ate them—because nothing ends a marshmallow uprising like a confident human with teeth. The breadstick retreated. Balance was restored.
The laptop tabs, however, remained. Forever open. Forever reminding Gerald that life is weird, snacks are temporary, and the internet will absolutely offer you links like pressure washing isle of wight at the exact moment you’re questioning marshmallow politics.
He didn’t close them. He just added one more tab: “why am I like this?” No answer, of course. Some things even Google refuses to explain.
