Dear Tuna Melt Lover, Kleptomaniac, and Banana-Chewing Noise

Dear Tuna Melt Lover,

Why do you insist on masking yourself as the perfect, deliciously hot and golden-brown accompaniment to a steamy bowl of tomato basil soup? Do you not realize that the only thing you’re accomplishing is making the cashier who takes your order grimace at the thought of the rancid breath you will have in 20-30 minutes?

Lover of the Tuna Melt, it is obvious that you have never smelled your own breath after eating tuna. When you toast the tuna, the smell magnifies. Add cheese, and it’s a smell putrid enough to clear out a town, “The Fog”-style. The zombie ghosts are included every time you exhale. It’s also equally obvious that you’ve never picked up on social cues—such as your girlfriend saying that she doesn’t like tuna, or that “extremely important” meeting that popped up as soon as you and your best friend are finishing lunch—meant to avert you from this dastardly creation.

It’s just selfish, Lover of the Tuna Melt. What about the person that has to make your lunch? Not only are they subjected to a nauseating smell while they make your deranged idea of a sandwich, but they have to deal with wiping down that mushy mess from a griddle afterwards, to avoid contaminating all the other foods that will be made afterward.

I understand where you’re coming from. I really do. Eating Brussels sprouts may be repulsive to some people. Eating Brussels sprouts for breakfast is unthinkable for others. But I make the Brussels sprouts myself, and I eat them at home. If any offensive odor begins to fester in my mouth, I can brush my teeth immediately afterward, and no one is subjected to the grueling and unsatisfying task of preparing them for me. If you’re going to get a tuna melt, Lover of the Tuna Melt, at least get a room. Preferably your room, so as not to subject others to your sub-par eating habits and stank-breath.

You’re not getting off the hook either, Kleptomaniac. Specifically, Kleptomaniac-who takes-eight-year-old’s-ocean-bingo-playing-cards-and-action-figures. You had me fooled at first sight. You must’ve known that I have a soft spot in my heart for elderly folk, because when you walked in through that door with your big glasses, head of sparse graying hair, and floral leggings with an oversized Disneyworld sweatshirt, I felt my heart soften for just one second.

You drew me in with conversation that was pleasant enough, even if it was only your usual generic small talk. But then you crossed the line, Klepto Cat Lady (I have taken the liberty of assuming you have a colony of cats at home). As you walked out of that door after using the bathroom—and wreaking havoc in it, might I add—you nonchalantly walked past the Ocean Bingo set left on the table and stole a playing card. Not. Cool. Did you have the foresight to think of what you’re going to do with ONE lonely playing card? You’ve irreparably disrupted a fragile ocean ecosystem.

On its own, that might be forgiven. Maybe. But then you took an empty biscotti jar from the counter next time you sidled in, with your feigned innocence and elderly aloofness. But because you returned it the next day, deeming your unsanctioned and temporary borrowing as “stealing” may be a bit harsh.

Maybe you tried to use the biscotti jar as a vase, only to realize that part of its allure was the bright red lid, which you can’t actually use if there are flowers in there. Or maybe you just wanted a makeshift hipster-like mason jar to drink out of. Unfortunately for you, a biscotti jar is about, uh, three times the size of a mason jar, so I will suppose you became frustrated with the increased number of trips to the bathroom you began taking (in this case, correlation and causation are one and the same) and decided to rid yourself of the item.

Your addiction to the adrenaline rush tied to pilfering stuff and junk is deplorable. But when combined with your self-confessed sexual attraction to younger men, a deeply disturbing picture is painted, Klepto Cat Lady. Stop giving my coworkers googly eyes. They’re not even subtle. Find another bathroom in a café to bomb like Hiroshima, stop stealing bingo cards, biscotti jars, and action figures, and work on flirting more gently. You’d only be helping yourself (ha).

As for you, Banana-Chewing Noise, I saved you for last. Worst for last. I am absolutely defenseless against you, and what’s worse; my aversion to you must be masked in all situations for fear of driving friends and acquaintances away in a fit of irrational and illogical rage.

When you pierce my ears, Banana-Chewing Noise, I have very dark and deranged thoughts. I try to think of things that normally tickle my fancy and make my face glow in delight, like cheesesteaks, succulents, and kittens, but nothing can keep me from spiraling into psychosis.

“Excuse me,” whispers one woman at the adjacent table to a concerned-looking waitress, “Would you please be so kind as to tell that young lady who is frothing at the mouth and babbling about the extermination of bananas to please quiet down?” Rude.

Banana chewers, please keep the Banana-Chewing Noise at bay by chewing only bite-size chunks of banana. It’s unnecessary and excessive to shove half a banana in your mouth and swish it around in mushy mayhem for the next two minutes.

I will do my part and take up meditation and yoga to help calm me through moments of turmoil—specifically those caused by you—but you need to do your part, too, Banana-Chewing Noise. Maybe that requires talking to your partner in crime, the seductive mushy banana, and the weak-willed Homo sapiens lured by said partner. It might be an uncomfortable conversation, and friendships may be ended, but do not lose sight of the end goal: My own sanity and the comfort of those near and dear to me.

Sincerely,
Carla