I know you want me. I can see it in your foamy eyes, staring at me from across the room with your savory little mustache. You want me to lick you, you twisted creature. You want me to drop another five bucks on the shortest-lived thrill ride in America. Well, let me tell you something, my friend: I don’t accept mustache rides from strangers —even if they are swimming in sugary bliss!

Stop it. Stop taunting me with that permeating smile. I don’t care how delicious you smell; I am not falling for it again. You do this every year. Every. Fucking. Year! And every year, without fail, I find myself getting sucked into your vortex of flavor, but not anymore. Not this year. This year I read your label — the label that YOU TOLD ME was restricted. I saw the deceit of your calorie index, and I’m here to tell you that I’m done. I am done with your seduction and trickery. You sit on a throne of lies.

Why must you continue to lead us down your charade of doom? Do you think it’s funny to woo women into believing that calories burn easily? We’re not stupid, you know. We CAN read! Last year alone, I blew up two dress sizes on the non-fat version. What the hell are you PACKING in that tiny cup anyway? Personally, I think you enjoy watching us suffer. You’re like the Sir Mixalot of the coffee world, except you can’t sing.

I’m not kidding. You need to stop it right now. Quit looking at me! No, I am not coming over there. No, I don’t NEED a free sample! Oh please, stop with the steamy aroma dance and save your tricks for someone less educated. I’m ordering tea.

What?

What do you mean limited edition? That sounds so… TEMPORARY! Damn it, pumpkin spice, why do you have to smell so good? I hate that I love you so much. Of COURSE we’re still friends. Oh no, please don’t cry. Please… stop… okay, just one tiny sip, but then we’re done.

And that’s how it starts: Every. Fucking. Time.

One of these days, I’m going to mail this stupid letter. Until then, you might as well make it a double.

Love,

Sassypiehole