His name is: Peanutbutter
Much to my great dismay, it has become painfully (literally) obvious that I can no longer eat peanutbutter. I'm crushed. Although I've been in denial for the past few years, I can no longer recoil from the fact that PB has become my enemy.
I'm terribly surprised. Since my earliest childhood, PB has been a good friend. He has always been there when I needed him. Through crunchy times and smooth, whether the jam or bread on my plate failed to live up to expectations, I could always count on PB to pull me through. We laughed together. We cried. With a cold glass of milk we celebrated victories or commiserated in defeat. But those times are gone.
PB has betrayed me. His evil, oily nature has risen to the fore. Like Nightshade, he is beautiful to look upon but terrible to consume. He torments me at night with red hot iron in my stomach and Drano in my intestines. His evil chuckle can be heard as I toss and turn in fitful sleep. That chuckle becomes a howl as I dash to the temple of salvation to exorcise his demonic presence. When the possession has ended, I often look balefully at the shelf where he sits and curse his benign, comforting appearance. PB sings to me, but like the Harpies of old who lured unwary travelers to their deaths, I must ignore his siren song.
I will mourn the loss of my friend, but there comes a time in every man's life where they must cut the ties that bind.
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