The Electric Applesauce Acid Test

I sit in my most dissatisfying class and

suddenly,

in a fit of insatiable yearning, my belly, devoid of all traces of egg or flesh, releases a wolfchild growl, the bellowing bao of a four hour famine.  I plan to satisfy my churning cavity's craving with a cup of applesauce perched enticingly on the edge of my desk.  I peel back the aluminum covering with a slow, satisfying process akin to the shedding of human skin and

POP!

a blob of applesauce sails into the air like a revolutionary cry and plops

PLOP!

into a perfect heap in the center of my notebook.  My fellow classmates abandon bored expressions to release fits of laughter

and I, bespeckled with the mass-produced mash of Johnny Appleseed's contribution to the American landscape, can only stare stupidly and grin like a chesire cat with freshly-shaven fur.  Applesauce dries on my T-shirt in a most suspicious fashion.  I do not wash.  This public display of forged debauchery keeps me wildly amused for the rest of the day as I stumble through lectures of molecules and epidemics, cups of coffee I swore I would renounce.

I need to stay awake somehow.