Hi. It’s me, your water bottle. Which one, you ask? The big one. The one you bought on New Year’s Day when you vowed to stay hydrated and “live your best life,” whatever that means. I usually keep a pretty low profile, but I’ve had it up to my meniscus. I can’t take the ups and downs of this toxic relationship any longer.

It’s time for me to speak my truth.

For the first few weeks, we had a good thing going. You filled me with ice-cold water in the morning, afternoon, and night. You showed me off to your coworkers. You raved about my ability to keep your beverage cool. It was heaven on earth for a bottle like me, but things have changed.

I started to worry once I took a few tumbles onto the gravel driveway. You repeatedly prioritized your precious iPhone and dollar store sunglasses as you juggled too many objects—maybe just use a bag?

Sure the physical damage was limited—I am made of steel after all—but the emotional injury is everlasting.

There are days when you fill me up at the kitchen sink and leave me on the counter for hours on end. It’s like you forget you wanted me in the first place. I imagine this is how your son felt when you got so caught up in episode 4, season 17 of Grey’s Anatomy, that you forgot to pick him up. You know, that time he thought he would be standing in the rain on that muddy soccer field forever, with nothing but a crushed granola bar to sustain him for the rest of his life? Well newsflash: I feel just as alone, baking in your balmy Subaru while you mosey through Whole Foods analyzing the organic produce. Did you know that leaving me in your vehicle is actually a fire hazard? You’re lucky I’m BPA-free, by the way.

But then out of nowhere, you go and do something totally romantic. We hike up a mountain and you show me vistas I’ve never seen before. We spend quality time together at the lake (my motherland).

You were once so amped for a day on the water that you mainlined five Bud Light Lime Margarita Seltzers in a period of two hours. You emerged from your drunken cat nap parched and sun poisoned, and I provided instant relief. What a rush. I felt like a superhero, but it was predictably short-lived. You always return to your abusive ways.

Why do you keep attempting to jam my full-figured form into your car’s inadequate cup holder? You know I simply do not fit. Look at me. Look at me. I’m 40 ounces of fabulousness. Maybe some scrawny ass, 20-ounce bottle could squeeze into that holder, but that’s not what you ordered. You should’ve checked my dimensions, boo. That’s on you.

I’ll be brutally honest here. You need me now more than ever. You’ve been drinking a lot of wine to cope with your family’s rants about critical race theory. I’m not judging. They’re unbearable to be around, but we both know how that pinot dehydrates you!

Not to mention the soda. The other day, I sat on the windowsill and watched you carry a can of Coke outside, as if that’s what your body needed during a brisk walk. I thought you’d come crawling back to me that evening, but you chose a “proper glass” for your water at the dinner table. What exactly is your love language? Betrayal?

Word of advice: I could pass for dinnerware if you didn’t cover me with these ridiculous stickers. I look like a fool.

Sometimes I blame myself. I should have known this would happen. I was confused when I noticed the unused bottles in your cabinet. I thought, “Why isn’t she using those? There’s a hunky Hydro Flask in there.” That was a red flag I shouldn’t have ignored, but I’m not responsible for your dismissive-avoidant attachment style. Simply put, you need to deal with your shit.

A new year approaches. I predict you will try to fill the void in your soul by buying yet another bottle. (I saw a “10 Best Water Bottles on Amazon” listicle open on your laptop the other day… sad.) Don’t banish me to the land of misfit containers. You and I both know I’m worth more than a marinara stained Tupperware. My lid’s crevices are molding as the weeks pass without a wash, so put me in the dishwasher—top rack—and help me help you, one sip at a time.


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