Dear bread, cookies, cereal, cakes and sweet delicious pastries,
I don't know what I did wrong, but it is abundantly clear that you are unhappy with me. I try over and over to make you happy by eating you again and again sweatily and hungrily, but my efforts are met coldly, with anger and high-gluten-fueled arguments.
Once, this effect you had on me- this gaseous delirium- well, it was intoxicating.
Now, you and your glutinous pastry ways just make me sick.
This is to inform you that I am taking out a cease and desist order on you. I'm sorry- I love you so much, but all I get from you is pain and misery. You make me feel ugly- your behavior nauseates me and ignites my gasses.
To document your abuse, I hired the famous court reporter, Maurice DeWindinpants to depict my pain in this hauntingly life-like sketch:
Look at this!
You have done this to me, dammit!
I'm afraid we have to go our separate ways.
I'm going to miss your hot, fresh, buttered bread. And your taut, sexy crackers? Mmmmm....gone.
When I think of when we were together, me caressing one of your soft, tasty muffins- well, I blush a little thinking of how naughty we were. So very naughty.
I'll get over you, but it won't be easy. You satisfy me in a way no other can. I get all warm and melty thinking about our long, hot, slathery nights.
But, you have never made me feel pretty in the way a woman needs to. My hips hate you and I know my ass isn't sorry to see you go at all.
Tis' with a bittersweet chocolate croissant heart that I bid you adieu, my sweet, wheaty lover.
p.s. I fully expect for there to be the occasional pasta and baguette booty call. Judge not, judgers. I am merely a mortal. I cannot resist the occasional quickie cookie or long, throbbing sandwich. I'm a whore that way.
Speaking of large midsections-
Hello- it's only June and I'm already sick of seeing (sometimes) hairy, always sweaty man-baby bellies and droopy man-boobs.
Why the menfolk get to let all this tastiness hang out and we don't is beyond comprehension.
Man-teats are disturbing, at best.
Put a damn shirt on already. Or at least paint something amusing on your belly:
That, I could live with.