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.