I never loved you anyway. I mean it. Oh, you had your sweet moments. I’ll always remember the cookies, the birthday cakes, the Boston cream pie, the brownies, the yogurt-covered pretzels, the chocolate chip muffins, the stuffed croissants, the cookies & cream ice cream, the . . .
What? No, just something in my eye. Back on topic.
The truth is, I was always unhappy. Everyone saw this coming. Ask my parents how many sandwiches I accepted in my school lunch days. Ask my friends how I feel about pasta dishes being everyone’s default vegetarian option. Ask just about anybody how I feel about ordering pizza. Even before you started to hurt me again and again, I didn’t need you.
I’ve always had other options. Beans and rice—gluten-free! Baked potatoes—gluten-free! Hummus and falafel—gluten-free! (Except when they aren’t.) Pad Thai—gluten-free! (As long as the soy sauce has no wheat.) Brownies—! (Well. There’s always almond flour.)
So I wish you’d stop hanging around, hiding in the French-frying oil and clinging to my colander. It’d be much easier to quit you if you’d leave me alone instead of showing up at my friends’ dinner parties and getting in the way every time I want to kiss someone. And stop trying to sneak in and join me on my lunch break at work. We’re. Not. Getting. Back. Together. The sooner you realize that and move on to someone whose intestines will love you, the better. For both of us.
It’s not me, it’s not you, it’s this darn HLA-DQ2.
But let’s not place blame. The truth of the matter is, I’ve wasted some of the best years of my life on you, gluten, and now it’s over. I’m better off without you. In six months I will be, anyway. Or two years. Or eventually. But I’m not worrying about that right now. Right now, I’m letting the healing begin.
So please, make this easy on me. Go away, and take all of these autoimmune antibodies you’ve left lying around my bloodstream the past few years. I never liked them, either. When you’re gone, I’m redecorating. It’s going to be villi, villi everywhere, just the way I like it. You’ll see.
Actually, though, you won’t. Because you’re not getting back in. We’re through. And what I said earlier, about those other intestines? I take it back. I wouldn’t wish you on anybody.
But I do wish you a happy Valentine’s Day, gluten. And good luck finding someone to love you by then; I hear you don’t have the best reputation these days.
Yours no longer,
Molly
Based on a Sprue Story 