What the--

Picture it. It’s 2007, and a miniature Eli had just won a chocolate bar in a raffle at school. As far as I was concerned, I had just won the lottery. I was on top of the world, and I had big plans for the chocolate bar. I was going to save it for a day so special that the only way it could improve would by be eating chocolate. That chocolate bar was going to make the perfect day.

I waddled over to the fridge (“waddled” is important here. I’m short now, so I must’ve been about 3’5” back then. Each leg was probably about the size of a loaf of bread) and put my chocolate bar in the back of the first shelf, behind the most obscure bottle of mystery sauce I could see. I had labeled it, too—I had four siblings back then (don’t worry, I didn’t lose any since. But now I have six) and I knew they would have no qualms about eating a chocolate bar that just magically appeared in the fridge.

Cue three weeks later. It was a Sunday afternoon. Sunday was a great day back then because I didn’t feel as though I wasted away my weekend as the looming face of Monday drew closer. Sweet, sweet times. Anyways, I had just found a quarter on the street, doubling the net worth of my assets. My dad was making a barbecue for dinner, and I just knew my day had come.

For those faint of heart, I would advise you stop reading here. This story is about to get very sad, and I wouldn’t want your day being ruined like mine was on that fateful day so many years ago. But if you think you can handle what’s coming, continue reading.

I waddled over to the fridge. I stuck my grubby little hands in the back of the first shelf, feeling around for the mystery sauce. There! Found it. I moved it out of the way and much to my chagrin, the chocolate bar was gone. I was devastated.

I ran to my older brother, mumbling incoherently about my terrible loss. Between heaving sobs and snot bubbles, I managed to get out the story of my beloved missing chocolate bar. And that’s when I saw the Cheshire grin spreading across my brother’s face. The horrible realization dawned on me.

I was angry. I was livid. You’ve never seen so much rage compressed into such a small person. I had to find the perfect way to express how I was feeling, and I finally found the inappropriate words to hurl at my brother. With balled fists, a reddened face and all the hatred I could muster, I yelled,

“What in the world?!”

Because truth be told, that was the most profane sentence I could have ever crafted at the tender age of 7. I haven't improved much since, but at least I learned how to better hide my chocolate.