Sup Crush,
I loved you as a kid, your orangey goodness hanging out on my top lip. That used to always make my grandma laugh, her grandson wearing his love on his face. I would drink like three or four cans of you a day and no one said anything because I was their lovable little boy and they wanted what was best for me: happiness.
But oh, the damage you can cause. Like you might have been the catalyst for my weight age circa 9th grade, which led to my insecurities which led to my quitting sports which led to my lazy girlfriend which led to my anger issues. Oh and how could I forget age six outside of Uncle Ricky's garage, yapping about knives or Rambo or pro wrestling, my blazing sugar 'stache in tow, and that wasp wanted a drink and stung me on my lip. DAG THAT HURT.
But that day, Crush, I realized the damage I could cause, smacking that wasp, with the bottom of your can nonetheless. Then, my last swig gone, I crushed you, with my six-year old feet, flat, on Ricky's gravel drive, tossing you with your smashed brothers in a dirty trashcan.
Yes, I realized I am better than you. I am uncrushable. But you, that's your name, Crush, and my name is Tyler so booyeah. No more orange drink for me, no more wasp stings, no more belly fat. Now, I wear my love on my hands or the trills of my voice or my blog. No, I don't love you anymore.
Goodbye,
Tyler
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