Love letter to Souplantation

Dear Souplantation,

Dearly beloved, I never thought I’d write an obituary at 18, but here I am. Now that you’re really gone, I guess it’s time for me to confess my love. My dad told me it was infatuation when I was younger—that you were just a guilty pleasure I’d see when my mom was on business trips, but I knew otherwise; my love for you is deep-rooted. 

I miss the way your leather booths used to hug my butt, so warm and so tight. Oh how I want you back. How could it be that you are gone? I just don’t understand. How could I possibly have taken you for granted—you gave me so many choices. I still dream of your mediocre cuisine, like that of a school cafeteria, but with the added bonus of home. You made me feel at home. I still wait for you, how I waited for your fresh pizza to come out of the oven, cut in those sexy squares, rather than taking an old piece under the warmth of your heater. I foam at the mouth for your vanilla-chocolate swirled soft serve cones, dipped in crushed, germ-infested Oreos and covered with rainbow sprinkles. 

You taught me discipline—how to wait for what I wanted. However eager I was to cut to the chase when we first met—to get to your hot, oh so hot, hot bar—I learned you were worth the wait. So I took my time, and it was good for me. I ate my greens before indulging in your hot goodness—work first, play later you always said. You played hard-to-get indeed, and let me tell you, it worked. Oh souplantation, baby, come back to me—I’m sick of the chase. We can fight bankruptcy and germs together. 

Love, 

Sienna, yours since 2013

P.S. 

About that fight we had—the one where you said something about me treating you like a prostitute—I’m sorry. I know my dad used coupons, but it didn’t make a difference. I’d have you anytime, at any cost.