20 pistachios later, the rewards of laboriously cracking their shells seem to lack tremendously. Meaning, I’ve shattered two of my already Vitamin-D deficient fingernails in an effort to consume a healthy midnight snack. (Because ‘healthy,’ ‘midnight,’ and ‘snack’ all go divinely well in the same sentence.)

Have you ever crunched down on an oddly burnt pistachio? Its pungent flavor rivals only the ass-iest of rotten fruits. But that struggle of releasing that pistachio from its cocoon inhibits me from ever CONSIDERING to spit it out.


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