Friday, October 16, 2009

An open cheese.

Dear Cheese,

You know how I feel about, you right? We've had a long and wonderful relationship. You are wonderful in almost every one of your forms. Cheddar, Brie, Provolone, Havarti, Pepper Jack...Nacho. It doesn't matter, I love you just the same. I loved you in college, when I thought a paper plate-sized slice of pizza was the perfect afternoon snack, and proceeded to pack on twenty attractive pounds.

We took a break then, and I lost that attractive weight. Then I stumbled into a relationship with a man who believed wedges of brie and string cheese were the way to my heart. And dammit, he was right! Wish someone would have told him that jewelry would have worked too. Regardless, he took the cheese route, and I packed on ten ultra-sexy pounds.

Cheese, I'm beginning to think our relationship has become abusive. To the outside observer it may seem that I am abusing you. But, when I come home from the gym at 10pm and decide I just HAVE to make nachos, we both know it's you. Whispering from the refrigerator, "Psssssssst...Great workout. Now melt me over some chips, fatass! You know you want it!" And then I give in.

I don't want to end this, but quite frankly, I miss my jeans. If you just leave me alone long enough to drop a few, boost my confidence, maybe I could find a new boy, or, shit, a JOB. And with a job, comes, you know what--more expensive cheese, and wine to go with it. I'm doing this for our future.


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