Consider celtic pasta, a fusion of Italian-Irishness, sumptuous shades of green, white, and orangey-red; fiery, infuriating, yet smoothly seductive. Sounds delicious. I want some. Yet, as far as I know, it doesn’t exist. I know I shouldn’t be personally offended by market failure, but I am. Market failure, you’ve let me down once too often. Not to mention that wandering hand of yours — you’ve never realized that just because its invisible doesn’t mean I can’t feel it. So long, I just can’t bear your bull no more.