By Mia Hanuska
Dear the colorful, cancerous, consistency of my perishing,
I simply cannot avoid your presence. Setting any one of my twenty toes into a store immediately brings me to you, despite knowing the implications of your brightness. You even contaminate the rations I favor like a speck of pepper in a sea of salt. Frosting, chips, and ranch I can handle, but I beg you: remove yourself from my beloved pickles. My pickles do not need to be radioactive alien puke green. You serve no other purpose than to create a disgustingly “rainbow with a pot of gold” façade on my delicious so-extremely-sugary-it-would-kill-a-victorian-child snacks. Children used to perish from bubonic plague, and now they won’t accept their breakfast unless their unnaturally flavored blueberry Eggo has every color of the rainbow—all due to you.
And please, I urge you to justify that out of all the places you pronounced important to infect, you chose medicine. The pills are already mandatory for me to ingest! Dying them construction-cone orange or Barbie pink doesn’t magically conceive an appetite for them from the Holy Spirit. Humor me, and allow me the joys of not having to ensure my prescription medication is free of you. Don’t even get me started on the irony of the only remedy that relieves me of your horrific symptoms…you’ve also desecrated!
Furthermore, your non-hive-inducing siblings work just as well as you. Why can’t you disappear in place of those delicious nature-founded colors? Allow my nutriments to return to appearing as though a real breathing organism crafted it instead of presenting as though it discovered space-travel and some conniving creature three hundred light years away sent it to harm me. I expect your immediate dispellance from my vicinity, everywhere I go.
The winteriest, freezing, hail-forming regards,
Mia Hanuska