To my dearest cilantro,
I am writing to tell you that we really have to stop seeing each other. I tried, I really did, but it seems as though this relationship is just not working out. You may think I am a coward for simply leaving you this letter and not addressing the issue with you face to face, but this is the only way. Not only because of the fact you physically do not have a face, but because I know that the minute you are before me, mixed in a giant vat of guacamole or salsa, I will lose all inhibition, forgetting that you tend to make me sick to my stomach, and consume you, all of you (most likely standing in the light of my refrigerator door at midnight while I wonder what’s become of my life). Well guess what, cilantro? It’s high time I take back the power. Believe me when I write these words: We are SOOOO OVER!
Please don’t act like you are surprised – surely you must know how unhealthy our relationship is. WE ARE COMPLETELY DIFFERENT, CILANTRO. I am made up of 60% water and 40% organs and 10% intelligence; you are 50% nasty green plant and 50% water, which makes you 100% FULL OF SHIT.
I’m sorry if it seems like I’m coming off a bit harsh cilantro, but someone had to tell you.
When we first met you assured me, you PROMISED ME you were refreshing and herby with just a hint of spice. And you know what makes me just sick to the stomach (besides the fact that you taste like bugs)– you were right. Nothing compares to you. (Note to self: add Sinead O’Connor to break up playlist). But you are a LIAR. I was played for a fool thinking that you were good for me, that maybe, just MAYBE you weren’t too good to be true. That’s when I realized that even smelling you caused me to throw up in my mouth a little bit. But that’s not all. Oh no, it gets worse.
I was visiting my aunt the other day, I opened her pantry and THERE YOU WERE. WHAT WERE YOU DOING THERE CILANTRO??? WHY DID YOU FEEL THE NEED TO HIDE IN THE PANTRY??? I wish I could say that was the first time I had caught you, but I have seen you at my parent’s, my friend’s apartments, in restaurants – IT’S LIKE YOU ARE SOME SORT OF CONSUMABLE PRODUCT PRODUCED IN BULK AND SOLD FOR A PROFIT AT EVERY LOCAL GROCERY STORE.
I DIDN’T EVEN KNOW WHAT BON MI SANDWICHES WERE BEFORE WE MET.
My mother warned me about you. She tried to keep me away. If only I knew then what I know now. Whenever I tried to bring you home (lord knows how hard I tried, Cilantro) she would send you away, saying awful things about you. “Cilanto is no good for you” she would say. “Don’t you dare be bringing that crap into my house,” she would say. “Who would want to put that stuff on their tacos anyway, it sounds crazy,” she would say. She was right – you are crazy. But so am I (I’m writing a break up letter to a side dish/topping, let’s be real here). Having you on tacos felt so wrong, but so RIGHT.
I want you to know that it really is me, not you. I blame my genes, the genes that somehow make you taste like a soapy hot mess. I guess then in a sense, my mother really was right. But aren’t they always. Sorry mom.
I better end this now before I change my mind. SO LONG, CILANTRO. This is goodbye. I wish things could have worked out, I really do, but I have hopes and dreams and all you’ve ever done is hold me back. I’ll spread my wings and I’ll learn how to fly (note to self: add Kelly Clarkson to break up playlist), I don’t need a spread to make me happy (add Pussy Cat Dolls), oh and while I have this opportunity – Taylor Swift if you would like to write a song about all of this, I’m willing to collaborate. Call me.
Thyme and rosemary, if you are reading this, DO NOT TRY AND CALL ME. No thank you.
With love from your cilantrophobic friend,