Dear Cheeto,
When I opened your bag, I told myself I'd make it past the rest of the week. But then I reached in, grabbed a handful, took a bite and that was it. I knew there would be no slowing down, no turning back.
I probably ate your mother and your father, your sister and your brother, extra-cheesy uncle, your cheese-less Cheeto best friend and soon I will eat you. I'm not sorry for what I have done. In fact, I'll probably do it again this weekend.
To me you are so much more than the last Cheeto in the bag. You're a symbol of accomplishment and a melancholy reminder that all good things must come to an end. I don't regret a thing except the fact that soon I'll have to get up and wash the memory of you off half my hands. Maybe next time I'll branch out and get Cool Ranch Doritos or perhaps Dill Pickle. Regardless, I'll make sure to get a kind that is more refined and put-together than you, because you've left me with a mess.
The time has come; it's time for you to go and swim with what's left of your bagmates in my stomach acid.
Sincerely,
The One Who Ended You
