My Darling,

We have been in a relationship for quite some time now.  We’ve had adventures; we’ve seen the world together.  And we’ve also been there for each other every day, even on the days when we don’t have adventures.  We’ve been there for each other every day at breakfast, when the sun rises and I complain as I trudge down the stairs and stumble blindly into the kitchen.  But you’re always there.  You’re always waiting for me with a smile on your face, even though its 6:04am and I really don’t feeling like going to school.  I mean, 6 in the morning?  Who on God’s green earth was made to get out of a comfortable, warm bed at 6 in the morning, and merrily trot off to a place called High School, a place infested with the faces of teenagers so forested with pimples that it is hard to make out their expressions underneath, which beg someone to tell them what life is all about.

But that is over now.  High School is a thing of the past.  6:04am is a thing of the past.  Now, we are even closer.  Now, I think, is the time when (if you are ready) we can take our relationship to the next level.

I don’t even have to go into the kitchen anymore to be with you. We sleep in the same room.  Me, in my bed, and you, in the closet.  But no longer, my dear.  No longer must we hide ourselves from people because they just won’t understand.  So come out!  I urge you, come out of the closet and proclaim your sexual orientation to the world!  I will take you by the hand, and you will look at me, and I will look at you, and I will know, by the way that you stare into my eyes, that you’re trying to say:  Oh yeah, its business time!

And then, I will unscrew your lid, and run my finger along your inner rim to wipe off the dry-crusty gunk left there from a knife.  It tastes good, but not as good as the dark, moist mass of you that is waiting for me about half way down the bottle (because you are already half way gone).  My finger dives in, and emerges as strands of you dangle from my finger, the way strands of melted cheese dangle from a piece of Giordano’s pizza.  I suck your goodness from my finger, turning it around in my mouth as to get the maximum amount of you.  Some of you lingers in the friction ridges of my pointer finger, so I wipe it on the sleeve of the sweater that people keep complementing me on.  My everything bagel sits halved, waiting to be caressed by your silky touch.  I procure a fork, and proceed to give the bagel what it desires.  Without you, a bagel is just a bagel.  An everything bagel is not completely everything until it includes you.  It is not whole until I experience the bagel with the added creamyness, chocolatyness, and hazelnutyness that is you.

Our relationship is intellectual as well as sexual, but its orientation transcends the binary categories provided by society.  You are neither women nor man, neither male nor female.  Even your name clashes with traditional sexual identities:  Your first syllable, “nut” is one of a pair of “nuts” that dangle dangerously from males and house the production of millions of sperm.  They are an essential part of maleness, and yet only a swift kick can render them destroyed; just as one swipe of a bear’s paw can render a beehive, the essential factory of a bee’s toils, destroyed.  Your last two syllables form the word “ella” which is Spanish for “she”, which is usually associated with femininity.

And that is why, my darling, my love for you will never fade.  Your beautiful name lingers always on my lips, that male prefix of “nut”, that female suffix of “ella”, that form your glorious name: Nutella.

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