I lift the spoon to my lips again and force myself to chew the briny yellow paste, swallowing a scream that no one in the factory would even hear.

I once squished the brightly colored blobs into shapes, mixing bits from each plastic tub in the hopes that my eyes would trick my tastebuds. It didn’t matter if molded into a hotdog or tugboat, the Doh would always taste the same.

I think of yogurt, pudding, oatmeal, anything to choke down another bite without puking a rainbow; I was mere ounces away from my quota.

Quality Control: it’s a living.