The green beans ad, again. You roll your eyes.
It's haunting you. Always lingering on any website you visit; always sloppily resized to fit banners and squares and pop-ups. The absolute epitome of low-effort clickbait ads.
Your curiosity prickles every time you see it. White letters in a grotesque handwriting font on a background of delightful stock image fruit assortment.
The watermark has not been removed; it goes across the image in a zigzag pattern. You have not seen the name of the company before.
Well, you're sick of this ad, and, quite frankly, you're curious about what kind of chaos being created it in the first place.
With curiosity, frustration, and a hint of hesitation eating away at you, you finally and decisively click the ad. There are four of them on the page. They are all identical.
Eventually, after a brief moment of loading, you are brought to a white page. There is a distinct lack of any sort of formatting or decoration.
The title--simply a line of caps, no special sort of underline or size change here--seems to change every time you glance at it, though you can't be sure.
They are all offensively mommy blog-sounding.
The recipe is short, a few paltry lines of boiling and seasoning. You glance at the ingredients list. There are no green beans there.
And yet. You are in the kitchen, with green beans, contained in a feather-patterned bowl you have never seen in your life.
A shelf-worth of spices you don't recognize are scattered across the counter.
You taste the green beans with the wooden spoon that's in your hand. A little bland, but all right. They were easy, at the very least. You did get these from a mommy blog.
The mouthful of green beans remind you of your computer. You find yourself hurrying back; why, you're not entirely sure, but your gut churns in anticipation.
You log onto google, anticipatedly--search a string of letters, click on the first link it brings you to.
You sigh--gratefully, with frustration--the ads remain, in the same produced-in-three-minutes style, but they have changed somewhat. FRESH EASY CHILI ONE INGREDIENT, it says.
The pink lettering is barely legible on a background of hanging, bloody meats. You click the ad again, not by your own admonition but by a reflex of the hand. The page is black this time.
The words are also black, but you can read them. There is no title but simply a void at the top of the page. There are 11 ingredients. You are brought to your kitchen.
There is a fat cut of meat in the oven. It smells of mold and mothballs. The shape isn't one you recognize.
You pull down the oven and bring out the pan; it takes a few shakes to pull it free from the black slime around it, but it eventually pulls free. The meat is cold and unsatisfying. Easy chili.
Another ad appears, as you are eating the meat, or maybe it is just the page. It shows a baby suckling on its mother's breast.
The words read "GET STARTED NOW: USED TO THE EASY LIFE?" The page is a color you do not recognize. The text is not formatted. There is no text, just the recipe.
"EASY steps to make a BEING at home DIY?" the title says. The meat is gone. You are in a room. The room is meat. You are meat. Easy chili.
You find yourself with a throbbing cluster of vegetables. Or meat? Maybe both. The magic of cooking. Quick green beans. It is healthy. It is a being. You have made a being. It screams.
It is a being. It is meat. You eat it, as it is fresh easy chili. All is meat. Some is green beans. You are a being. You are the chef. You are a mother.
Another ad pops up. The title is a rune. Several runes, made of meat. There is no page. "SPLENDIFEROUS EASY REACTION MEAT HOW????" It brings you to the page. Maybe it brings you to meat.
It is easy. There are not enough spices. There is enough meat. You collapse. You are meat. The ads are meat. The meat is easy and fast. Just like green beans. Cackling, from you, from the meat.
You are absorbed. You are easy.
Easy green beans. Quick fresh lemon pie. Easy fresh meat quiche. Quick easy meat tacos. For the whole family! You are for the whole family. You are quick easy.