Parting is such sweet and salty sorrow...

Dear Wife—

At first, I hesitated to go forward with this resolution. But after your recent late-night binges scarfing down bags of chicharrónes—those pork rinds you dip in butter and the god-awful crunch they make, I knew I could no longer reach you.

We had a bright future ahead of us filled with walks in the sunset along Jethro's pond. And frolicking with nature on beautiful countrysides. And spending cold winter days snuggling in bed. Instead, you’d rather park yourself in front of a smorgasbord or bake gingerbread men all day.

It's time we face the facts: I can’t eat fat and you can’t eat lean. Our nuptials were doomed from the start, my dear.

Food is your lover. It always has been. I should have gained a clue after you refused to share the wedding cake with our guests. And I see that twinkle in your eye when you stare at those pies cooling in the neighbor's window. Heck, I can't even say the word 'fresh' without you salivating all over the upholstery. Don't get me wrong. Food can be a heavenly experience. I myself, still enjoy one of the only things I can eat: beef jerky subs slathered in marmalade with a dash of catnip. You, my dear have taken it to an unprecedented level.

I admit. It’s not entirely your fault. I was your enabler. I used to satisfy a fetish while watching you devour mounds of figgy pudding then belch your adorable self to sleep. Pure entertainment.

It does nothing for me anymore. I'm no longer your 'Main Squeeze', as they say. And you are no longer my Honey-Buns. Food won this battle to the rights of your voluptuous love.

I leave you with this dwelling and a voucher to the Waffle House as my parting gift, where you can bathe in carafes of blueberry syrup until you are asked to leave.

Goodbye, dear heart.

Love Jack...

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Now, if I could only get you to roll off me to your side of the bed, I can pack up and leave.

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The Challenge: