My name is Chrissy Hartzell. I’m 27 years old. I believe in taking care of myself, and a balanced diet and a rigorous exercise routine. I’m a successful sales manager at a successful sales firm. One could aptly say that I am a boss ass b****. A tour de force. A winner. And they would be correct. Because I’m a freakin’ machine.

A waged, money-making machine, like any 21st-century apparatus, requires fuel in order to function for its prime efficiency. Cars have gasoline. Teslas cruise on electricity. Baby cows nourish themselves with their mother’s nipple. What’s my fuel, you ask? That’s very simple. Bumble Bee Snack on the Run! Tuna Salad.

I seek a life of convenience, and there’s a store for that: the convenience store. The store of convenience. On my daily lunch break, I like to take my bodily vessel on an excursion to a fluorescently lit Walgreens. It’s a two-minute walk from my office location in downtown Chicago, so if a client happens to request an impromptu Zoom conference meeting, I am easily available. I pass the various restaurants and fast food joints and scuff at the obvious stupidity. Good luck waiting for your food, you uncultured swines. I’ll be applying lipstick using the bald head of Jeff Bezos as a mirror before you can even say “Ronald Raegan.” A half-witted, everyday consumer could easily overwhelm themselves with the superfluous choices in this two-story convenience mall, but not me. I know where to find my fuel. I go to its respective shelf, pick up the rectangular box, and I swipe my card for purchase. My food is ready for digestion.

The return on investment reveals an overwhelming percentage of profitability. Six grams of protein, nineteen grams of fat, and two hundred and twenty-two calories calculated for maximum energy accrual. The ingredients include the absolute essentials of a well-balanced, energy-boosting meal, and that’s a personal guarantee. A single serving of tuna fish is equivalent to 200% of your requirements for daily antioxidant consumption. The salad is a masterful concoction of light, albacore tuna from the seas of the Oregon coast, water, vegetable broth, and salt. The creaminess designed for minimum bite-age (more bites equals more time) derives from heat-stable mayonnaise. This is a formulaic consistency of soybean oil, whole eggs, egg yolk, distilled vinegar, salt, textured soy flour, sugar, chestnuts, gluconic delta lactone, and more water. According to LifeHack.org, tuna fish meat is rich in manganese, zinc, vitamin C, and selenium, which all are known to boost immune system functions. Sometimes, you’ll even taste a bit of mercury. The media will tell you that it’s “toxic,” but I only put my trust in corporatocracy. A healthy immune system means a healthier me, and a healthier me means less sick days. Sick days are for the weak, and I’m not weak. I once ran a 5K at 32:50. That was my personal best.

In order to sufficiently self-nutrify using natural greens from the abundant Earth, the consistency has also included celery, carrots, and onions. To the average eye, this cacophony of ingredients may be loud, disgusting, primal. But to those who know better, it’s the slop we must eat for the greater good of capitalist gain. Canned tuna is a healthful food rich in protein and Omega-3 fats, and according to Forbes, people in the highest percentage of Omega-3 levels had a 181% “lower risk of unhealthy aging.” Retiring is for the tired. They are the ones who want to wilt and wither in the weeds of mediocrity. I plan to live for a very long time, and I plan to live my life with undeviating sex appeal. I will forever be the hottest piece of meat you’ve ever seen, thanks to Bumble Bee®.

I prefer an upright apparatus to digest my meals, as it accelerates the speed at which the sustenance can slide down my throat. There is a table without chairs at the Walgreens. I eat the tuna salad in all of five minutes. I am ready to go back to work.

I really don’t have the time to write the rest of this “review,” but if you must know, the experience is juicy, wet, and chewy. With the application of the tuna-slop onto the complementary cracker, you only need to take one to two bites for a swift and prompt swallow. More than two bites and you’re pushing. Someone just made 1 million dollars that could have been yours. What a shame. Don’t get it twisted; I don’t savor my snack-on-the-go. I digest it. I let it travel to my stomach and perform as intended. As intentionally built. Any other experience is illusory and childish.

As a special treat, the tuna salad leaves a lasting impression on my breath. Someone give me a big corporate kiss on the lips. I taste like success. There is an idea of a Chrissy Hartzell. But there is no real me. And though I can hide my cold gaze, and though I write exemplary food reviews like the rest of millennial America who uses the internet as a tool to desperately, pathetically grasp for human connection, and though you might think I am gorgeous and relatable, and you want to be my best friend, I simply am not there.