Dear French Fries,
Yes, you’ve been around since my childhood.
Yes, you’ve always consoled me when burgers treat me like shit.
Yes, I realize that somewhere in your core, you desire to be healthy and good.
Yes, I realize that many of my good memories come from times you’ve been with me.
Yes, I realize that you bring great pleasure to my mouth and lips and tongue.
Yes, I realize many others adore you and the idea of you.
Yes, I realize that you are often “All You Can Eat.”
But…
…French Fries…
It’s got to stop.
I know this relationship is great for you, but for me, none of these “benefits” outweighs the harm that results when you are part of my life.
I acknowledge my part in this, French Fries. I acknowledge that I took actions as well, that I paid for you and I put you in my mouth. I acknowledge that I have altered my life as a result of making these choices. I have suffered. My family has suffered.
That is my responsibility and I and my family will deal with it.
I am sympathetic, French Fries, because I know you’ve become accustomed to having a share of every plate and every basket. I’m sympathetic because I know how much you want to be an entree or a main dish.
But I’m not too sympathetic because I know ultimately, that my decision will not change you or your ways. I know you’ll make up a story — perhaps I become some kind of unreasonable anti-fry guy, filled with rage, a “potatoist,” perhaps — where you’re the hero. That’s what happens. I accept that.
But I don’t care, French Fries. I can’t be guilted by you or manipulated by you anymore. I have food that cares for me as much as I care for it. I have food that leaves me feeling healthier afterwards, filled with energy — not dragged down and sad and listless and nervous.
So, it’s over.
And I’m not going to change my mind, French Fries.
I’ll still acknowledge you if I see you on a menu, French Fries (though I have a feeling you’ll just avoid me as you’ve avoided all the others who have chosen to no longer eat you), and I will of course be cordial if you show up at the table with a friend (likewise — I don’t expect that. I’m pretty sure that you’ve made it a point to define your life by who’s eating you, and, well, I’m not eating you anymore, so I figure I’ll fall off your radar forever), but I will not put you in my mouth.
Not ever again.