Dear Wendy’s Triple Cheeseburger,

Life isn’t supposed to make sense. If it did, psychology would be just as much a profession as supercalifragilisticexpialadocious is a word, Youtube’s hilarity would plummet by at least eighty percent overnight, and skinny jeans would have never existed.

I love you. Now, I realize that’s coming on a bit strong but, please, hear me out. My heart flutters whenever I step into your residence for a little rendezvous. I salivate just thinking about you as if your own deliciousness was some form of Pavlovian classical conditioning. Once you’re in my grasp, I can’t help but to continue eskimo kissing you, only with less nose and more teeth and mouth. A savory symphony of meaty squishes, interspersed with the occasional squeal of delight, fill the ears of all that are nearby and I enjoy every minute of it.

What doesn’t make sense to me is how I can love something yet continue to be its demise. Like dating a werewolf, our relationship will always end with me eating you. Yes, I’m at that point in life where I can’t eat you without also thinking about how long I need to run in order to prevent you from becoming adipose that may mask my five pack of abdominals. Yes, I love gnawing at your fluffy patties yet despise the grease stache that results from it. I don’t care though; I’ll keep on coming back for more.

If loving three quarters of a pound of meat, stacked high between two slices of cheese and a bun that I’d love a bed made out of is wrong, then I don’t want to be right.

Until we ‘meat’ (hehe) again,

Adriel