What I'm trying to say is that I live alone and I impulse-bought a box of graham crackers, a bag of marshmallows, and a package of the sugary soft wax that most will recognize as Hershey's chocolate.
July the Twenty-Second, Year Two-Thousand and Fourteen:
I do not believe that my landlord would approve of my lighting even a small bonfire in the backyard. Even if I did, it would only highlight the fact that I purchased these items without any plans to share them. (For those unfamiliar with s'mores, I should clarify that the items used to make them are only generally available in large packages and are traditionally consumed at summer gatherings).
I also do not wish to use the microwave oven, as that would require me to go downstairs and possibly interact with the other people in the house. They wouldn't understand.
No, they would understand all to well and think themselves superior for not succumbing to the same circumstances which ensnared me in the grocery store. In the absence of dignity, discretion will suffice.
I have elected to roast the marshmallows over a candle, using a fork.
I have eaten three s'mores this night. I can't recall what I actually had for dinner.
July the Twenty-Third, Year Two-Thousand and Fourteen:
I have eaten another s'more upon getting home from work. There is a second marshmallow skewered on the fork, ready to be melted and applied to the other ingredients I have set out on the plate.
I suspect that the mere notion of having control over one's life may be the greatest of humankind's vanities. My fifth s'more in two days lies just on the edge of the Future, and I shall soon find myself reaching past that edge and tumbling into the Abyss of all meaning.