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8/7/2025, 3:08:52 AM
>>938115763
Kermit wishes — more than anything — that he was cool enough to enjoy cookies. Not secretly, not in shame, not with trembling hands in the dark pantry at 2AM. No. He wants to be the kind of frog who can openly love cookies. Loudly. Proudly. With confidence. He sees others do it all the time — Cookie Monster demolishing a plate of cookies like a rockstar, kids at birthday parties double-fisting chocolate chip cookies with no guilt, no hesitation, no existential crisis. But not Kermit.
He picks up a cookie, stares at it like it’s judging him. “I’m not like them,” he whispers. “I’m not worthy of the cookie life.” He tries to take a bite, but it crumbles in his weak felt grip. Crumbs fall everywhere. He panics. He cries. He apologizes to the cookie.
The truth is, cookies represent everything he feels he isn’t: fun, spontaneous, full of joy and reckless sweetness. He thinks maybe if he wore sunglasses or learned to skateboard, he could handle cookies. Maybe if he stopped playing the banjo like it’s a therapy session and started living fast and loose, the cookies would welcome him in. But for now, he watches from afar — a green outsider looking into a world made of sugar and crumbs and fearless chomping.
He opens the cupboard. There they are. Perfect rows of untouched cookies.
He closes it again.
Maybe tomorrow.
Kermit wishes — more than anything — that he was cool enough to enjoy cookies. Not secretly, not in shame, not with trembling hands in the dark pantry at 2AM. No. He wants to be the kind of frog who can openly love cookies. Loudly. Proudly. With confidence. He sees others do it all the time — Cookie Monster demolishing a plate of cookies like a rockstar, kids at birthday parties double-fisting chocolate chip cookies with no guilt, no hesitation, no existential crisis. But not Kermit.
He picks up a cookie, stares at it like it’s judging him. “I’m not like them,” he whispers. “I’m not worthy of the cookie life.” He tries to take a bite, but it crumbles in his weak felt grip. Crumbs fall everywhere. He panics. He cries. He apologizes to the cookie.
The truth is, cookies represent everything he feels he isn’t: fun, spontaneous, full of joy and reckless sweetness. He thinks maybe if he wore sunglasses or learned to skateboard, he could handle cookies. Maybe if he stopped playing the banjo like it’s a therapy session and started living fast and loose, the cookies would welcome him in. But for now, he watches from afar — a green outsider looking into a world made of sugar and crumbs and fearless chomping.
He opens the cupboard. There they are. Perfect rows of untouched cookies.
He closes it again.
Maybe tomorrow.
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