Cilantro has, for the past few years, dominated the garnish game. I'm not sure when it began, but I do know when it should end: right now.

Why has this dumb little herb weaseled its way into every single dish? Why in the world am I being forced to pick out little green shred from every piece of food? Even in items you wouldn't think would have cilantro, boom, there it is, proudly sitting atop your dish, mocking you with its verdant arrogance.

Now, I know some of you may be thinking--um, girl, calm down, it's just a spice. And to those people I say let me live my cilantro-free truth.

Are there cilantro lobbyists in every restaurant in the United States? Mexican food, sure, I get it, but a local diner? Sprinkling that hell-herb into my turkey wrap is not acceptable, especially if the world "cilantro" does not appear in the menu description. Take, for instance, my dinner from last Saturday. (I remember the day exactly because I have never felt so personally attacked). There I sat, innocently anticipating my food, ignoring the other people at my table in favor of my Facebook feed when my meal arrived.

Setting my phone aside, I took my food (a nice, cheese-free turkey and lettuce wrap on a wheat tortilla, for those curious few) into my hands and bit into it. Instantly, something felt wrong. A pit formed in my stomach, sweat trickled down my forehead and into my brow, and my neck snapped back as though I had received a physical blow. The taste was unmistakable--acrid, horrifyingly similar to a mouthful of Dawn dish soap. "Ah," I thought, "of course." I chewed and swallowed (I'm no quitter), and then looked down into the wrap.

And there it was, winking up at me from among a pillowy bed of shredded lettuce, laughing at me. Cilantro.

Now, my intention is not to shame others for their topping preferences. We like what we like, and that's fine. But I have had enough of cilantro's cruelties. Its near-incessant attacks on my palate wear on my being, the very core of my self. I spend my days questioning when I will have to face Satan’s spice, my nights creating contingency plans in the event of a surprise cilantro assault.

How many times has a perfectly acceptable dish of rice and beans been sullied by the cook's insistence on a cilantro garnish? Too many times to count. Of course, I'm not unreasonable; I understand some people truly enjoy cilantro, and I see no reason for them to suffer. If there must be cilantro, why not on the side? Must I endure this hellish existence for must longer? Can there be no peace?

I know taking a hard stance on this topic will prove controversial, but I feel it must be said: fuck cilantro.