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.
