What's up. Not much here. Guess I haven't eaten you in a while. I guess I took me some time to really think about our relationship, and it's probably time we had a talk.
No, don't worry. I'm not mad at anything you did. To be honest, when I saw you being eaten by that guy at the diner on Union Street, I really didn't mind.
You see, I think we're done. And although many breakups begin with "it's not you, it's me," it really feels like it's you this time.
I was certainly attracted to the whole idea of you when we first met back in high school. What? A BURGER with PIZZA FLAVOR? Hells, yes! But either blame it on my ignorance on how burgers work or on my callow optimism, but I was really into you. The snack bar at the bowling alley. The Montreal Café in North Carolina. Even the airport TGI Friday's. All were tawdry attempts at deliciousness, only to be met with a stomach ache and gassy cramps.
But in my desire to somehow make it work, I kept on ordering you whenever I saw you on a menu. I was convinced that there had to be more to you than just some melted mozzarella and tomato sauce slapped on a burger. So I kept on letting you disappoint me and abuse my intestines like that.
But now that I'm older, I've seen you for what you are. A sham. You're nothing more than a poor burger trying to mask its inadequacies by tarting yourself up like a pizza. But you're not a delicious slice of pizza, you never were. So take off all that mozzarella and tomato paste. Seriously, you're embarrassing yourself.
Call me when you're ready to grow up,
EADJ
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