Déjà vu! A bottle of ketchup kept appearing on my mind every time I tuck in for food. I have a high attachment and fondness for tomato sauce, also known as catsup to some. Ah yes, pathetic isn’t it? I’ve outgrown hobbies, clothes, movies, silly habits but not ketchup.
My addiction started at the tender age of three or maybe four. My earliest memory of my association with ketchup was in a scene where I was rummaging the refrigerator for a packet of ketchup (courtesy of ol’ McD’s). How should I describe the euphoria I experienced once I’ve found the packet? Oh, the triumph! It was the top of the world for me. Never had I felt so happy. Gosh, if given the chance I could probably come out with a doodle that can easily outrival the works of greats, say Monet or Da Vinci at that point.
Gleefully, I’d sneak out to a secluded corner where my precious commodity and I could be left undisturbed.
Slowly, I’d attempt to open the packet with the gargantuan strength of a toddler. As a last resort, once my hands gave in, I would tear it up with my teeth. A simple but effective method I have used often, utilizing only the simplest of tools, my set of milk teeth. As expected, the battle between Homo sapiens against packaging is always won by the former.