You know you have been my most beloved French friend from the moment I saw your cherry-red canister modestly resting amidst a sea of pricey Nutellas. In a time when I felt lost and alone after abandoning my poor, innocent Peter Pan, yours was the voice telling me I would eat sandwiches again —unimaginably delectable (and affordable!) sandwiches of strawberries and chocolate hazelnut. It was you who made me feel at home in a land so pretentious, so foreign.
Thus, it is with deepest sorrow and regret that I must end our special love affair. For the past several weeks, unbeknownst to you, I have been planning a trip to Greece — a kingdom filled with radiant sands and sunshine, and consequently trim, nearly nude beach-seekers. Hence, in order to protect my future seaside peers from complete repulsion at the sight of my lumpy bits in swimwear, I’m afraid we must part ways immediately.
It is imperative that you know I in no way blame you for your fatty composition—you would not be the delicacy I adore if you were any different. Truly it is my own severe lack of self-control obstructing our relationship. I wish I could be different, but after a tedious day in that hellish L’Institut de Français, when I see you sitting so cleverly next to my oh-so-soft wheat bread, I lose it.
So you see, we simply can’t be together if I am to slim down to a non-vomit-inducing bathing suit size. If there is any sense of justice in the world, we’ll reunite someday when physical appearances matter not and heart disease is merely a bully of the past. I hope when that day comes, you will have forgiven me and we can put all of this Greek nonsense behind us.
Goodbye, my love. May you always cherish the beautiful meals we have spent together.