a side of guilt with mayo on top

Dearest Kraft Mayo (and all other mayonnaises who are reading this),

I just wanted to reassure you that I value our relationship.  What you do for my sandwich, my salad dressing,  even my hamburger since I've moved to the South, and in essence, what you do for me as a person, can't be quantified or adequately described in words.  My feeble attempts to relate my feelings to you would be a mere specter of the thoughts that swell my heart and make it want to burst in a fit of something other than a blown aneurysm.

My beloved Mayo, I find your ultimatum troubling.  Wait!  Do not despair!  It's just that love, hate--all those superlatives--they seem to be quite too much, and if I didn't know any better I'd think you were trying to get into my pants. 

Please don't take this personally.  I didn't even say that I "hated" coffee back in the days when one plugged-nostril whiff of it made me nauseated.  As far as the word "love" goes, well, I love me an ice cream sundae with caramel, real whipped cream and peanuts.  You're just not there yet, but there's always room for growth.

What it comes down to, Mayo, is that I like you.  That's all I can give you right now.  Please do not return this reassurance with a gift of food poisoning.  I promise not to let you go.  I've become too much of a Southerner for that to happen.