Shelling Pistachios

I never buy shelled pistachios.
I like to shell them myself.
It gives me time to contemplate. That split second before I add those extra calories to my system instead of popping a handful.
After another.
After another.
They remind me of people. Those I mentor, guide, help grow through a path the professional giant in my life helped me walk.
I don't like having them by the fistful. Each nut has its own space and deserves that respect, that fraction of a second where I do the bionic cost-benefit. Is it worth it?
Some shells are gaping wider than the others, easier to split open. Others are tighter bound but still just need a yank. Then there are ones that don't even have a slit. I throw them back in the bag based on my mood.
Am I in for the effort? I still don't throw them away, not even the ones that either have no cut or break in the process of being pulled apart in a way that the nut isn't accessible. Another day, another cocktail of hormones gushing through my veins, I'm sure that other day is just around the corner if not there tomorrow, when I will actually bite into the one that doesn't even help me by peeking out of its shell and crack it open. I will have that drive if I don't have it today. To sink my teeth in and pull that nut out and share its energy, its light, its core with the outer world.
Serve its life's purpose.
Make me fat.
Let the world revel in their glory. Contribute to the magnificent collective. Serve their bigger purpose by being consumed.
Yeah. It's just not that day today.
*tosses one back in the baggy*