A breakup letter
To my side bae, sticky-fingers-hustle and weekly wet T-shirt contest,
Things have been getting pretty serious lately and we’ve been seeing each other a lot. But I want to be open and honest with you, I don’t see a long-term future for us.
Don’t get me wrong, I still want to keep doing what we’re doing—at least for a while. I’ve been looking around, exploring my options, and it turns out there’s no one else who will pay me to listen to podcasts and eat leftover cheesecake.
I’m really grateful for what we share—beyond the wage slavery we know as capitalism. Together, we’ve seen sides of Utrecht that few get to experience. Fancy restaurants where waiters wipe the silverware on their jeans when laying the table. Office blocks with enough caffeine in the sewerage system to provoke a rat coup.
Let’s be honest, we’re not a perfect fit. Who ever heard of a career dishwasher allergic to hot water? I have to cut down on my antihistamines, I’m popping them like gum. Like fish in the sea, there are lots of dishes in the sink and plenty of people willing to wash them—it just won’t always be me. The mayonnaise bowls and gravy saucers will be just as clean if another set of hands puts them in and out of the machine, and then back in again because dishwashers can melt plastic but mayonnaise is more resistant.
Not long now and I’ll be hanging up my (frankly impressive) collection of black T-shirts and cargo pants—soldiers take off their uniforms after the war. But I’ll never forget what we’ve learnt together, like how watching paint dry in the rain is easier than scrubbing scrambled eggs off of stainless steel. Or the fine balance between releasing a spray of hot water that’s enough to rinse a plate versus giving myself a facial.
I know I should have told you sooner, but the truth is, I have a dishwasher at home. They’re not as big, or as efficient. Sometimes the cups come out dirtier than they went in. But we made a promise to each other—and I can’t get out the lease for another 6 months.