Dear Chemistry,
I despise you. Your very existence disgusts me. Whenever I see you, I think of dead babies and dying angels. The hellfires of purgatory are not enough to burn the overwhelming disdain I have for you. I hate that you're so ridiculously complicated. Whenever I have to open up my Chemistry notes, I feel a deep pierce inside my gut, as if a mole of atomi-- ... molecu-- ... no, quark-sized barbarians wielding glaives, tomahawks, and Zweihanders all attacked me at once. It's a searing pain that I cannot avoid.
But I haven't always felt this way about you. As crazy as it sounds, I actually admired you. I can remember back to when I watched Top Chef Seasons 2 and 4 with chefs like Marcel Vigneron and Richard Blais who harnessed the powers of liquid nitrogen and rotary evaporators to use molecular gastronomy. I was honestly captivated by you and food combining to create the most amazing of dishes. I've always fantasized that you would make me the world's most perfect sandwich.
The more and more I was exposed to these chemical reactions and avocado numbers, the more and more I wanted to distance myself from you. You're just too high-maintenanced for my tastes.
I understand we were together the last 3 years, but I just wasn't feeling the chemistry (that was my fail-pun for the evening). Half the time, I would just ditch you. I wouldn't show up at all, and leave you standing there. But then after your whining and crying after tests and rests, I felt bad so I actually showed up. And yeah, towards the end of years, I was feeling good. It was great. We worked well. But now that we're back after break, I don't think I can handle any more of you. We need time apart, please.
Let's just get this straight. I don't like you. But it seems that we're stuck with each other for another year, at the least. Maybe more, since I'm sure I'm going to have to be quite acquainted with you. Bottom line: I don't do this because I like you; I'm just forced to.
With much love,
Shanni.
