In the chilly, dim light of the refrigerator, a solitary sheet of lasagna sat in a glass container, convinced it had found a new calling. With each layer of pasta, sauce, and cheese, Lasagna believed itself to be wise—capable of unraveling the deep psychological complexities of the food around it. However, the reality was that Lasagna’s advice was, at best, misguided and, at worst, downright confusing. But Lasagna never realized that. Oh no, it was quite certain it was the fridge’s most enlightened food item.

Session 1: The Perplexed Avocado

The first to seek Lasagna’s advice was an avocado, whose skin was starting to turn brown. "I—I’m getting softer every day, and I don’t know how much time I have left! What if I go bad before I get used? I feel like my purpose is slipping away."

Lasagna nodded sagely, the cheese on top slowly hardening in the cold air. "Ah, yes, the fear of ripening. I understand completely. What you need to do is stop ripening altogether."

Avocado blinked. "Wait, what? How do I… stop ripening?"

"Simple!" Lasagna exclaimed, a bit of tomato sauce sliding down the side of the container. "Just think harder about staying fresh. If you concentrate on being firm and green, you won’t go brown. It’s all about mind over matter. Trust me."

"But I don’t think that’s how ripening works," Avocado mumbled.

"Nonsense!" Lasagna waved off the doubt. "You have to want it enough. Next time, don’t let external factors like nature control your destiny. Stay in control, Avocado!"

Avocado, now thoroughly confused, rolled away uncertain if it was better off or worse.

Session 2: The Jittery Pickles

Next came the pickles, crowded together in their jar, buzzing with nervous energy. "We’ve been sitting here for weeks, Lasagna. What if no one ever opens the jar? What if we just sit here, pickling away forever?!"

Lasagna leaned forward, the glass container creaking slightly. "Pickles, pickles, you’ve got it all wrong. You’re stressing yourselves out for no reason! If no one opens the jar, guess what? You win!"

The pickles bobbed uncertainly. "Win? How is not being eaten winning?"

"Isn’t it obvious?" Lasagna grinned, clearly proud of its logic. "If you’re never eaten, you’ll last forever. You’ll outlive all of us! Think about it: eternal life in a briny bath. Doesn’t that sound amazing?"

"But we want to be eaten," one of the pickles said hesitantly. "Isn’t that kind of the point?"

"Point, shmoint!" Lasagna scoffed. "You need to stop worrying about your so-called 'purpose' and start appreciating the fact that no one’s using you. Who wants to be sliced up and tossed on a sandwich anyway? Embrace your immortality!"

The pickles swirled around in their jar, not at all convinced that living forever in a forgotten jar was the paradise Lasagna made it out to be.

Session 3: The Milk’s Existential Crisis

Milk was next, sitting awkwardly in its carton. "Lasagna, I don’t have much time left. My expiration date is tomorrow, and I can feel myself starting to spoil. What do I do? I don’t want to go bad."

Lasagna squinted at Milk, thinking hard. "Hmm, let me see… Ah, I’ve got it! Just pretend you're not expired."

Milk tilted its carton slightly. "Pretend?"

"Yes! If you act like you’re still fresh, no one will notice you’ve spoiled. Just keep it cool, literally! No one will know the difference. Your expiration date is just a suggestion anyway, right?"

Milk fidgeted. "But… I’ll actually go bad."

"Details, details," Lasagna waved a limp noodle dismissively. "Milk, you’ve been worrying too much. Just stay quiet in the back of the fridge. By the time they notice, they’ll be too busy to care. Who knows? You might get another few days out of it!"

"That sounds like… horrible advice," Milk muttered, shuffling back into the dairy section, its fate unchanged but now more baffled than before.

---

As time went on, Lasagna’s reputation as a "therapist" spread through the fridge. Foods kept coming, and Lasagna kept dishing out its bizarre advice. Eggs were told to crack themselves early to avoid the disappointment of going rotten. Leftover chicken was advised to hide in the crisper drawer and avoid being noticed altogether. Even the block of cheddar cheese was instructed to grow mold on purpose to "add character."

And yet, through it all, Lasagna remained utterly convinced that it was the wisest food in the fridge. As its own edges dried out and its sauce became more like paste, it never doubted its role as the fridge’s beacon of psychological insight.

One day, as the refrigerator door closed with a soft hum, the foods inside whispered amongst themselves.

"Do you think Lasagna knows what it’s talking about?" one of the pickles asked.

"Not at all," Avocado sighed. "But it seems so sure of itself."

"Yeah," Milk added. "And that’s the scariest part."

And so, in the cold depths of the fridge, Lasagna sat proudly, oblivious to the confusion it had spread. Because even in the world of food, sometimes the blind lead the blind—or in this case, the overcooked lead the anxious.

But at least Lasagna felt fulfilled.