The junk food house.
You know what I'm talking about. The one house that had AAALLLL the goods. The one where the parents don't give a shit if you eat Count Chocula or Fritos after school. Not because they were bad parents--not at all. It's just that they decided to forego the Capri Sun battle for other battles, like violin or soccer maybe.
And the full benefit of their junk food largesse fell to the us, the kids.
The thing of it was, the kids who lived in the junk food house never even seemed to know how good they had it. You'd show up and casually open the pantry in their kitchen after school, hoping for some whole wheat pretzels, at best. And then . . .
There it was, gleaming like a cache of gold and jewels that Indiana Jones or Lara Croft Tomb Raider or some shit just swung into a cave on a vine in order to steal. Cheetos. Little Debbie Snack Cakes. Cool Ranch Doritos. Hershey Bars. Marshmallows.
And you'd turn around wide-eyed and stick a thumb behind your shoulder and whisper yell "DO YOU REALIZE WHAT YOU'RE SITTING ON HERE?!?!?!?" But your friend would just shrug like it was nothing, and watch with disinterest while you continued to paw over all the options before selecting a package of Bugles.
And even though it was the 60th time you'd been over to their house, the glee of unfettered access to junk food was never diminished. Admit it: you know that person just popped into your head and you're about to tag/@ them.