an open letter to mayonnaise

dear mayo,

when I first met you, I was disgusted. granted you were accompanied by the likes of ketchup and mustard and together you three make quite a sick troop. but ketchup and I have made our amends, and while mustard and I have agreed to disagree, he also doesn’t make regular appearances in my life. you on the other hand… I’m more revolted by you than ever, these days.

what is it about you? you’re made up of such simple ingredients: eggs and oil. while I’m more than tolerant of both those ingredients, I just don’t understand how you’ve created the terrible and terrifying thing that is yourself… out of components so simple, so inherently okay. were you born beside a nuclear power plant? did your mom drop you on your head over and over again? how did you become so sick?

but that’s okay, you can do whatever you want, you’re a free condiment. we could potentially live in peace, avoiding each other and agreeing to live different and separate lives. but you aren’t content with this, are you? you know I hate you and so you seek me out… making my life more miserable. you’re a horrible condiment, mayonnaise, do you know that?

you infiltrate even the simplest of sandwiches, hiding underneath the crisp, wonderful lettuce and there, you spread yourself thick in secret. but I can smell you a mile away and everyone knows the lettuce trick anyways: you will be disposed of. I refuse to eat you, stop trying. but what about hamburgers? you have no business being on hamburgers and ruining a beautiful thing the way you do. it’s rude, it’s inconsiderate and it’s not okay. it’s really, really, not okay.

and you make friends with all of my friends too, as if that could convince me you aren’t the sneaky, gooey, nasty son of a b**** that we both know you are. they exclaim, “omg, I love mayonnaise!” and I cringe. they’ve been played. but you’re so two-faced, they can’t be convinced or saved and now you’re trying to come after me. it’s not going to work, mayonnaise. we’re never going to work out.

so this is my last, serious plea that we work things out diplomatically. pack up your suitcase, take a trip to McDonald’s and stay there/out of my life. don’t ever, ever leave the condiment bar. I know you like South America and think you have a lot of friends there, but believe me, you don’t, and I’d like to return there one day without you haunting my street food. and Korea? really, mayonnaise? did you need to go that far? get out. leave.

if you don’t, I’ll be forced to take serious measures. I will hunt and find you in supermarkets then pretend to be your friend before dumping your sorry *ss into the nearest trash can. I will ask everyone if they’ve seen you and proceed to inform them of your evil demeanor. I’m willing to uncover you, mayonnaise, and I will ruin your life if you stick around. don’t make me stoop to such measures… walk away.

I’m giving you until the end of the week. don’t even try to borrow any of my suitcases.

sincerely (I mean every word),