I have a bad habit (well, I have many, but let’s stick with just one for this evening).  I have been trying to get better, I really have.  You see, I tend to eat almost all of any given item in the house, but leave just enough behind to claim that I intended to share it.  Yummy tub of ice cream, all gone except for ½ cup.  Bag of gourmet potato chips, see ya, except for 3 or 4 on the bottom of the bag.  New type of cereal, delicious, but hold back at least enough for half a bowl.  Sort of like sharing.  Sort of like self-control.  Sort of, not really, but I truly have been trying to reform myself.  That’s why today’s bit of Karma was a bitter pill to swallow and also a tangled mystery to confront.

Setting:  Kitchen Cabinet.

All appeared to be normal, as I reached into the cupboard to pull out the Pop Tarts.

Oh yes, everything appears to be normal, but don’t fool yourself.

Opening the box, I was shocked to discover (gasp!) only an empty metallic wrapper remained.

Shiny Pop Tart wrapper, sad and alone.

What dastardly breakfast table deed had taken place?  What shocking pastry abduction had occurred?  Something horribly wrong had torn at the very social norms that hold our fragile preservative laden society together, because I know, I know deep down in my heart, no one in my beloved family would ever return an empty Pop Tart box to the cabinet.  Never, because we live in a land governed by law and respect, and I know my children would never leave me Pop Tart-less.  Never, because otherwise, we are no better than savage Pop Tart devouring beasts of individualistic intent.  Otherwise, we must sleep with one eye open.  A steady gaze set upon the remaining Tarts of Pop.