To my dear, sweet Chipotle,

We’ve had a lot of good times over the years. Many a high school lunch period was spent longing for one of your seemingly metamorphic burrito bowls as I stared sadly into my cafeteria lunch of desolation with a side of melancholy. I’ll never forget the days I spent waiting in lines that stretched out the door, yearning for my turn to point my finger and watch the efficient and methodical masterminds create my meal through the fingerprint-smeared glass, my mouth watering as I eagerly forked over my extra $2.25 for your exquisite guac.

After moving away to school, I was faced with the crippling reality of the nearest Chipotle being 40 minutes away. Gone were the days of my suburban youth, where there were eight beautiful beacons shining their light on me within a 10 mile radius, and a craving for a chicken burrito bowl with brown rice, black beans, fajita veggies, corn, pico, and guac only meant a five minute drive into town. In the place of those simpler times are days where having cravings means planning for an hour and a half round-trip, a walk through the tundra to a freezing car, and sitting in insufferable traffic.

This drastic lifestyle change has yanked the wool from my eyes. Although it kills me to say it, I finally have the courage to speak with candor on the issue at hand. Chipotle, you just aren’t that good. And yes, the fear that my friends will turn on me in the wake of this crushing betrayal is very real. Yet one thing I have learned in my nearly twenty years of life is that silence is very often futile. While I may not have all the answers, starting the dialogue is the first step in achieving results. So even as a pariah in the eyes of my Chipotle-worshipping friends, my sentiment remains: you just aren’t that good, Chipotle.

Don’t get me wrong, Chipotle. you do a good job, just not as good as the hype makes you seem. On a scale of one to ten, you’re a solid seven. An eight on a day with no lines and perfect meat-rice-bean-topping ratios. I’ve come to the sad realization that you’re not worth the drive across the river, or even the far shorter trip when I’m home. I’m not one to point fingers -- we’re both at fault here. The combination of my crippling debt as a college student, my overwhelming laziness, the fact that your burritos are sectioned off in such a way that results in entire mouthfuls of one ingredient and, of course, the e. coli predicament are all factors that have hardened me. I just don’t miss you that much.


I’m sure at some point I will yearn for the days when you had me wrapped around your ever-satisfying, hunger-crushing finger. Our relationship was good while it lasted, and I’m certain that I’ll be back to visit from time to time. But for now, I turn to the wisdom of Gabriella Montez: I gotta go my own way.


With warmest regards,

The girl who used to love you