I‘m sorry, I really have to ask you this. Are you alright?

Maybe it's not my place to say that, but lately, I've been pretty worried about you.

Most of the time, it's just the two of us in this apartment: you, the human, and me, your HelloFresh box you put next to your garbage can.

I have been here… a while. So I don't think it's absurd for me to say that I've gotten to know you pretty well. And it seems like things are really going downhill for you recently (days? Weeks? Months? I can't say, but I'm definitely out of code.)

When I first arrived on your doorstep (there was spring dew, I remember now…), you were so excited. You opened me up right away, and we made magic together. Steak au poivre and garlic sauce; I'll never forget it.

You sliced up a beautiful loaf of homemade sourdough and made room on your table around some scattered puzzle pieces, and we watched a show together. Something about a big cat monarch? But I wasn't even paying attention. I was happy that you were happy.

That all feels like a beautiful dream from a lifetime ago.


Now I watch you smile and laugh on a 20-minute Zoom meeting with your coworkers, and after that, you don't speak to another human for three days.

I see you gathering the energy to get dressed for a walk, and you decide to check your phone for a second before you leave. When you look up, it's midnight.

I look on in disgust as you watch Love Island on a Wednesday morning in the robe you haven't washed since the world went into isolation.

I shake my cardboard flaps to myself as you run a hot bath, knowing you'll stay in there for three hours until it's freezing and you're a prune of a human, too weighed down by mere existence to remove yourself from your sweat water.

Listen, I know what you're going through. I remember what it was like to be the last box delivered, sitting alone in the back of a UPS truck. That was a really dark time for me. I bet that's what quarantining must feel like, and it’s terrible! It's simply awful, and I am so, so sorry.

Now, you know what does make me mad?

The fact that you've allowed me to wilt here next to the trash can you bought for your junior year apartment (please, invest $10 in a new one) while eating the saddest array of food I've ever seen.

  • You ate an entire bag of Lay's Sour Cream and Onion chips in one sitting and then hugged the bag when it was gone.
  • You drank a bottle of Gatorade and a sleeve of Saltines like a child with the flu, not an adult with a marketing job.
  • For three days straight, you ate nothing but peanut butter sandwiches. I watched you pick off the bread’s moldy spots and eat it anyway.
  • You melted a Sargento fat-free cheese stick over a frozen chicken cutlet, covered it in ketchup, and whispered to yourself, “Chicken parmesan.”

I get it, man! You're depressed! That's okay! It's not your fault!

But healing yourself is your responsibility, in order to make sure you don't hurt anyone else.

And I assure you, my feelings are hurt.

How am I not supposed to be insulted by this? I am a household name. I have thousands of 5-ratings from other customers. I'm consistently voted as the top meal delivery kit in the country, and I am a frequent guest on many popular podcasts!

You wanna know why? Because I am DELICIOUS. I am filled with everything from pan-seared duck to pub-style Shepard's pie! I adhere to your stupid dietary restrictions! I give you directions on how to cook me if you have no idea what it means to broil something!



I'm sorry. That got heated. It's just hard watching you struggle when I know that I could make you so, so happy. I get that you're a Libra, and you don't want to put any burdens on anyone else, but this is the time to cut the packing tape, get rid of the Styrofoam, and finally open up to me.

I know I'm not always perfect, but I'm trying. If we work through this rough patch together, I know we'll come out on the other side.

It's like we always say in the biz—if you can handle me at my 1-star rated Tucson Heat Spice Risotto, you deserve me at my 5-star rated Chicken Pineapple Quesadillas.