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  • Because we used to see each other fairly frequently, you have my email address and
    lately you have begun to get a little brazen.

    You have always had the uncanny ability to discern when I'm on the verge of a meltdown or hormonally munchy, wooing me with your gooey, tangy concoctions and crudely propositioning me with, 'you know you want my Dippin' Strips.'

    But this is a new low, even for you.

    You hit me up right before Thanksgiving, taking advantage of my frazzled nerves and holiday desperation. You just can't stand the thought of me enjoying my giblets and gravy somewhere else.

    You are like a jilted lover drunk-dialing me, pleading and begging, telling me I'm so special. So valuable. Tempting me with your erotic suggestions, offering to make concessions if I take you back, leaving me weak and panting at your obscenities.

    Stuffed crust for the price of a regular.
    Large for $7.99
    Free dessert.

    Oooh, you are an evil genius. Truly.
    And you can be on my porch in 30 minutes, before I even have a chance to catch my breath, stand on a scale and get my head straight.

    But here's the thing. Our relationship has become toxic. You are addictive and have too much caloric baggage. Just because your box is made from recycled materials doesn't make it OK.
    As a result, I'm going to have to revoke your writing privileges.
    It's not just you. It's me too. (Not everything is about you, silly!)

    I feel dirty every time I see those orange grease stains on the placemat.
    I want my flour unbleached. Tomatoes unadulterated.
    I want my weekly allotment of sodium in 7 days, not one hour.

    So go cry your oily, ocher, iridescent crocodile tears on another plate.
    The great modern-day love pundit, Ms. Taylor Swift said it best:
    "We are never getting back together. Like, ever."
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