Troubled feelings about peanut butter. The organic stuff is gross and wet, just nuts in a puddle. The cheap stuff is stiff and bready and sweet, not so much a butter as it is a dough (with the same sculptural assertiveness as a cookie dough, even). But you’re a peanut butter person, regardless—you get the stuff out of habit. Every week you have to make this decision: five stops from work if you want to go to C-Town, six if you want to splurge at Khim’s. A thousand weeks of this small struggle laid out before you, a puzzle to do on your way to the grave.