My Plastic Princess,

Where do I even start? You’ve always been a perfect fit. It was almost like they took this mold of my perfect match and engineered it in some sort of lab.

Let me set the scene for you: orthodontist’s office, 2016. I had just been informed of my severe overbite when the doctor brought you over. My jaw dropped and almost dislocated because of its abnormally crooked alignment. There we sat, together at last: an ugly thing that I wished was made of plastic—and you! My retainer.

I’ll be honest, I expected to hate you. I thought our relationship would be filled with searing pain, occasional blood, and lots of tears. But after just a few days together I couldn’t wait to show you off in public.

People stared as I strutted down the halls of my high school with my new saliva-filled accessory. When my friends stopped and asked me what the fuck was in my mouth, I just laughed. They wouldn’t know custom if it slapped them in the face. We even went out to dinner together, although the waiters at Olive Garden had no idea what I was talking about when I tried to order the “thide thalad.”

Your sheer dedication every day to straightness and societal beauty expectations is so inspiring. I’ve always felt like you just get me, y’know? I’ve never met another person so committed to being 100% plastic. With every botox injection over the years, I’ve felt us growing closer together.

But look, I have to be honest—I’ve felt a bit of a shift lately. And it’s not just my teeth moving because I’ve forgotten you for the past 241 days.

I think it might be time to end things.

Nobody can deny that we’ve had some good times together. My social status really took a hit last year after my entire Hot Yoga for Hot Mommies class found out about the botched implant in my left butt cheek. But in those trying times, you stood firmly by my side. You reminded me that a lumpy ass didn’t matter—having perfect teeth already made me hotter and sexier than everybody else. Now that I’ve grown up and matured, I’ve realized something really important about myself: I really am better than everybody else, even without you.

It’s really not you, it’s me. A girl like me just can’t be tied down to a piece of plastic, no matter how lovely it is. You may not know this, but the word retainer actually comes from the old French word retenir, which directly translates to “it’s weird to spend ten years with a chewed-up piece of plastic in your mouth.”

It’s just not very sexy when I have to pull you out after a one-night stand. And even though I’ve cleaned you well over the years, I’m still not sure how I feel about the fact that one of us (I won’t say who) has been in the McDonald’s dumpster on two separate occasions.

And let’s face it… we do have a 16-year age gap. I know the world is getting more understanding about that kind of stuff, but I’m starting to think that maybe it’s a bit weird.

When the time is right, I’m sure we’ll come back to each other. But I know if I love something I should set it free. So for now, my Plastic Princess, I set you free—to the back corner of the overstuffed bottom drawer in my bathroom that I will never open again.

XOXO

P.S. If it’s any consolation, the internet says that plastic takes like a bajillion years to decompose. So that gives you plenty of time to grieve our breakup, travel the world in search of your life’s purpose, or mourn my future death (since you’ll probably outlive me).