Dear Citrus, Strawberry, Mango, Cherry, Green Apple, Raspberry, Grape (especially you Grape) and all those I’m too traumatized to mention by name,
The first time I met you I was like 13 which I guess was completely appropriate considering there is no way your whipped cream or birthday cake variety could be marketed at anyone over the age of 18. Since I considered it dope in it of itself that we were hanging out, I let the fact that you tasted like one part lighter fluid and four parts simple syrup slide. Like literally. Right down my throat. Wait…did things move too fast from the very beginning?!?!
Then, when I was able to upgrade to pretty much anything with the first name Grey because my parents accidently supplied him right in the kitchen cabinet, I pretty much forgot all about you TBH. It took until my first night of college to see you again. Allegedly, at least. Like tagged photos prove that we were physically there together but if you zoom in on my eyes I was indeed, not home. More on this later.
As the semester progressed, warning signs started showing up pretty fast. One thing that always bothered me is that you were so finicky about who you got along with. There are enough people in our relationship not willing to branch out (i.e. me) that I need you to be flexible. Like, example, I could never bring out your Citrus variety with my BFF Diet Coke. They always say that if a boy and your best friend don’t get along, you know it’s not meant to be. God, I should’ve listened.
Plus, in hindsight, I definitely blame you for my 3-pound weight gain that semester. Whoever said it was my birth control was seriously disturbed. That being said, if it wasn’t for you, would I even need to have been on birth control at all? God, so many unanswered questions.
That brings me to the blackouts followed by the hangovers. There’s just something about telling stories to my betches about taking five pulls of strawberry fusion when you were wearing plastic (PLASTIC?!?!?!) at a frat party and then not remembering how I ended up with a box of pizza in my bed that is not appropriate once you can legally buy alcohol yourself. Like sure, I can tell all my betches that it wasn’t my fault that you were just at the party and a classier boy wasn’t. I can tell them that it wasn’t my fault that I asked my grandbig to buy me vodka and she came home with you. But now, I’ve grown into a woman that can choose her own vodka and even mix it with soda. In a cup, even. And you’ve stayed the same. Don’t take it personally. Actually, maybe take it a little bit personally. Honestly, you’re fucking disgusting. Sorry. Word vomit.
Hey, at least there will never be the memories?
Bittersweet (but really way too sweet) Goodbyes,