I’ve never been defeated by such a small piece of fruit. I have 25 chocolate-covered cherries for my toil. Twenty-Five.

It’s been a comedic affair so I don’t feel terrible, but I look at my tiny tupperware filled with my ugly little cherries and sigh a heavy sigh.

So rather than chocolate-covered cherries, people are getting little books about the making of them. Or maybe both: one pathetic misshapen cherry per box, and a little book documenting the horror so they can appreciate the full measure of absurdity.

My husband ate one of the losers (a loser amongst this bunch? Hard to comprehend.) and began singing the theme to “Charlie Brown Christmas.” Presumably, my cherry was as goofy looking as the Peanuts’ tree.

That’s really something. I should kill him, but I understand. They really are pretty sad.

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