Whenever I eat M&Ms, I like to hold two M&Ms between my fingers and squeeze them as hard as I can until one breaks. I eat the cracked one, and the one that didn't crack becomes the champion. Then I take another M&M and force it to compete with the champion in this deadly gladiator game of M&M's. I do this until I run out of M&M's, and when there is only one M&M left standing, I send a letter to the M&M's brand with the M&M champion and a note attached that says, "Use this M&M for breeding purposes."
"My parents, brother, and I left Iran in 1980, shortly after the revolution. After a brief stay in Italy, we packed all our belongings once again and headed west to the exotic and the unknown: Vancouver. We had recently been accepted as landed immigrants, meaning Canada graciously opened its doors and we gratefully accepted; we arrived at Vancouver International Airport on my 10th birthday, three suitcases and one sewing machine in tow. After respectful but intense questioning at immigration, we were dropped off at a hotel on Robson Street, which was then still a couple years shy of becoming the fashionable tourist hub it is today. We were jetlagged, culture shocked, and hungry, so that first night, my father and brother courageously ventured out into the wild in search of provisions. I fell asleep before they returned. The next morning, I woke up at 5 a.m. and ravenously feasted on a cold Quarter Pounder with cheese and limp French fries that had been left by my beds...

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