Mayonnaise, Je T’aime

My Dearest Hellmann’s,

You’re probably confused as to why I’m writing you this letter. After all, I was the one who ended it, the one who pushed you away, the one who left. But as I stand here, staring into the lonely cabinet where we met, I realize that since things ended so quickly, I never told you the full story.

First, I should really start by thanking you. For teaching me about myself. For loving me unconditionally. For always staying faithful. And for being more than just my favorite condiment, for being my best friend.

They say, true love comes at “first sight”, and for us, baby it was no exception. I’ll never forget the first time I held you, smelled you, and twisted you open to reveal that creamy, off-white glory staring up at me.

Before I ever touched your cold gelatinous skin I knew you were the one. You were mysterious, different, and always had me coming back for more. One minute you were sweet and creamy, the next you were tangy and firm. The most perfect paradox of deliciousness staring seductively out at me through the clear plastic of your cylindrical container with classic blue top. And although we are apart, I think fondly of the time we spent together: rainy afternoons at the movies; candle light dinners on the beach; and lazy Sunday afternoons with nothing between us but a spoon.

Then, like the Hindenburg, my joyous blimp of devotion finally exploded. Actually my cholesterol spiked putting me in the risk pool for heart disease. It was the perfect irony: the one who stole my heart was physically destroying it, leaving me 2 choices: either live alone or die by mayonnaise.

Since I’m writing this letter, you can probably guess I chose option one. And although I miss you, I’m comforted by knowing that you’re probably out there somewhere, finding happiness inside someone else’s arteries. Meanwhile, I’m in therapy and am working on my relationship issues. Specifically, why everyone I fall in love with seems to want me dead. After you it was a blonde named Kathy. She tried cyanide. We don’t talk either.

Yours always,

Man Who Writes To Condiments