Dear Cheese, you traitorous bastard.

Remember the good old days? I don’t remember ever being introduced; it was as if you were always there. First, as Kraft singles—individually wrapped in that weird plastic—then as Coon, followed by a wide-ranging affair, taking in soft cheeses, hard cheeses, cheeses with fruit in, cheeses in strange colours…

I remember taking you to school for years as a child, sometimes on your own, sometimes in sandwiches with Vegemite or tomato … those were good times, weren’t they?

Yeah, we didn’t always get along—I still don’t know what you were thinking when you let yourself go all mouldy, and what you let the Americans do to you beggars belief—but more often than not, you were a brilliant bastard. A brilliant, delicious bastard.

Oh, what did I ever do to you? I loved you, goddamn it!

Now, when I see you, I have to look away. I just can’t stand it.

Okay, I’ll admit it. Occasionally, I’ll try a piece. Just a small piece is okay, but who am I kidding? I can’t just have a small piece, I need more. And you let me have it too, you bitch. Then you laugh at me, as I’m doubled over in agony, my insides a mess.

Fuck you cheese. I never want to see you again.

…

…wh-what? You’ve got a lactose-free cousin?