Despite all the times I’ve spaced out – while waiting on a red light, during my college political science class, vacuuming – to name just one-tenth of one percent of likely scenarios – I’ve not once thought of myself as a “Skittle.” A rock star and supermom – much taller or course – but never once have I thought of myself as a Skittle.
In fact, I’ve never thought of Skittles as people. Imagine, all those lost hours and not one focus on candy representing a group of people. (In full disclosure, I did have a housemate who referred often to me as a “Fruit Loop,” a comparison I am not sure was complimentary.)
The thought of me as a Skittle hits me now as it has everyone. Donald Trump Jr yesterday suggested that if you had a bowlful of Syrians, I mean Skittles, and just three would kill you, would you take a handful?
My answer, “Hell, ya!” I happen to love Skittles. Very sweet yet simultaneously slightly sour. Color? Oh Skittles come in bright, vibrant bursty colors. Yellow. Green. Orange. Red. But it’s not the color. It’s the taste of Skittles that I love. Just enough of a sweet shell to crack before savoring that ooey, gooey sugar high on the inside. Yum.
A super-sour-sugar high zips straight to the brain via some express autobahn to the serotonin and dopamine lying around like couch potatoes. Hit with the Skittle zip, those little neurotransmitter-spuds mope no more. They are at full attention. I can feel them bopping around like they’re at a giant dance party. I can see the strobe lights flashing in every color of the Skittle rainbow. All this from a single piece of candy smaller than a dime.
And the more the merrier. Keep the party flavors flowing.
So, back to the question, partially paraphrased: If you had a bowl of Skittles and you told me three would kill me, would I take a handful? My answer remains, “Hell ya!” I’d never want to miss out on a good time even at the highly unlikely risk of death. And if I could be the life of the party, I say call me a Skittle anyday!
Suffragette Kitty 
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