Ah! I remember that summer. There I sat, sunlight splashing over me from the kitchen window. I was young, I was proud, I was Marinade! Beside me sat chicken breasts in a plastic bag. Ugly. Bloody. Boneless and runny. Flavorless bastards. What would they be if not for me? Lumps of tasteless cooked chicken muscle. But I was there to save, singlehandedly, the 4th of July taste buds of these fine American's. Which is ironic if you think about it, since I AM Teriyaki.

The lady of the house grabbed me suddenly. I tore my label eyes from the dead poultry and relished in the warmth of her hands upon my body. Bottle. Whatever. Anyway, She firmly grasped my head and I felt a pressure. What was this? Was I to fulfill my destiny NOW? Was NOW the time? I sloshed with excitement as my cap broke away, not quite following the corrugated lines, but who cared? I was POURING! Pouring over the slimy foul. Encompassing it. Embracing it in my pineappley embrace. This is what I was born for. Bottled for. Whatever.

As the lady sat me back down on the counter, I quietly mocked the formerly tasteless foul. "Chicken breasts', I muttered, 'would be nothing without me. Look at them, sitting there, scared of my abundance of flavor. As well they should be. MSG repre-SENT!" I tried to throw a sign, but then remembered I had no hands. Or arms.

I napped for awhile in that sunlight. Bathing in the afterglow of my success. I awakened to hear the crowd around me. I watched them fill their plates with potato salad, potato chips, macaroni salad, various dips, and my flavor rival THE DORITO. I began to panic. "Are these fat asses going to do nothing but stuff themselves with these CARBS? Are they not going to lighten it up a little by taking one of the hot, steaming, flavorful chicken breasts that I had looked forward to conquering for my entire SHELF LIFE?! EAT THE CHICKEN YOU ASSHOLES!!" I yelled this last, but I have no mouth, so none heard me. But then, wait! What was this?! They were staking chicken on their plates! The fat blonde took 3 pieces. WAY TO GO LARDO! They ooooohhh'ed and aaaaahhh'ed over that chicken. My label burst with pride.

Later that evening, the lady put me in the refrigerator. I had heard tales of these kinds of things. Placement was very important, I had heard. If the put you in the front, chances are good. If they put you with the lite salad dressing, chances are the rolly polly bastards will forget about you. No one really LIKES lite salad dressing. But I was in the DOOR. What did THAT mean? I looked to my left and saw soy sauce. Mi amigo! But on the other side of him? Spicy pickled garlic. He'd been there awhile. I could tell. He simply nodded to me and went to sleep. Later on he would accuse me of beating his cat with a parasol. This didn't look good......

So hear I am now. An older, wiser me. I still recall fondly the warmth of the sun, the pride of the spice, and the fat asses in my eyes. Now, I have little. The light in the fridge comes on. Goes off. Comes on. Goes off. I pray for an end. I weep tears of mono-sodium glutamate. My cap is crusty. My once bright label, dim, torn and peeling. One day I know they will clean out this shelf. They will "pour me down the drain", whatever that means. All I know for sure is that once upon a time, on a hot summers day, I brought joy to many who have now forsaken me. I will.... get my...... REVENGE.