What does it mean!?

The pop tart sits on the counter. It's been ages since it was toasted. It is cold again, now stale.

Isn't this like life? We are made, toasted, and then left half eaten to grow stale. Wasted.

The pop tart regards you. "Art thou here to contemplate, or wilt thou, like so many others, make a hole in mine crusted and jelly-lined center to insert thine breeding instrument?" it asks.