I am mostly ingredients you can’t pronounce.
I was created in an environment that would make even the most well-raised person feel self- conscious about how they dress and how much they weigh.
I am consumed alone. Always alone.
I am, sadly, the reason you moved to this neighbourhood.
I am your excuse to avoid the gym.
I am, honestly, not that good for you.
I am the portrait of your failed ambitions in kale, wild rice, and exotic dressings.
I am an affront to everything you believed in as an idealistic, young college student.
I am addictive.
I am the reason you and your wife are together.
I am the only thing you still have in common.
I am a reminder of how little effort you are willing to expend on fueling yourself.
I am who you talk to about your meetings with divorce attorneys.
I am who you confide in when you admit you’re only still together for the money.
I am your mistress and I know your secrets.
I am seven hundred and twenty-five calories of pure emotional carnage.
I am your daughter’s favourite food.
I am somehow going to be responsible for your death.
I am 16 dollars.
I am your fast-casual salad.