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Babysitting a bunch of preteen mung beans was not my ideal activity for the weekend. Between the childish drivel and unbearable attitude that seethed from each of them, I was nearly thrown off the edge of patience and insanity within the first ten minutes of the endeavor. I cannot say what it was I hated most about the loud and whiny beans. I loathe the shallow material obsession with fleeting fads which every preteen falls head first in to. These children were not innocent of this obsession; they had developed their own little clique, rampant with giggling and rude words about other beans they disliked. Their clattering of their chatter, the reptilian green of their eyes, their desperate need to horde together as if in an ancient tribe gripping for survival, all of it sickened me. Then, of course, was the icing on the cake of unpleasantness: the overwhelming angst. Despite their comfortable lives, the mung beans were all horribly dissatisfied with everything they received. Their whims were never satisfied before another arose.

Never the less, I had to aside my discontent with the beans I had to care for so that I could do my job. Knowing that their chronic dislike of, well, everything, I put little effort into feeding and entertaining them; no hard work would be wasted on their vile complaints. They each had their own distinct pickiness when it came to cuisine. However, they were all as deliberate as the next at accentuating the particularly unbearable portions of the food I offered. Proving once again that they strive for individuality, but at the final tab, all look exactly the same.