Dear Peanut Butter,

I’m sorry that I did not consciously realize until recently that you are actually made out of peanuts. Like by virtue of being called “peanut butter” you are a butter-resembling thing made out of peanuts, not general vague brown-ness as I had previously assumed. Usually you taste like sugar, not like nuts. Even your mainstream yet “natural” varieties. My confusion was innocent but understandably offensive. Now I know better. I’m sorry.

I’m sorry I vehemently dislike your crunchy variety which I acknowledge is your best opportunity to showcase what you truly bring to the table.

I’m sorry that I associate you with the meals my mom made for me when she didn’t have more time or more money to make what I really wanted. I’m sorry I think of you as the low rent garage sale version of a Lunchable. I’m sorry that my opinion of you is colored by things outside of your sphere of influence such as the fact that 75% of my siblings preferred grape jelly, and though I preferred strawberry I always lost out by the principles of democracy. That has nothing to do with you, and yet twenty years later I still judge you for it.

I’m sorry that whenever I make a conscious decision to indulge in you I almost always do so begrudgingly because I hate when you stick on top of my mouth.

I’m sorry that I only barely tolerate you unless covered in honey, bananas, Nutella, literally anything but you in your natural state.

I’m sorry that my favorite interaction with you—in fact, maybe my sole purely positive interaction with you—is inside a Reese’s thing when you’ve been so mutated from your original form that you might as well be a spoonful of sugar and I wouldn’t know the difference. And I’m sorry that we call it “Reese’s” and not “Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup” which would give you more credit, though you’re really just the bullshit supporting actor in this scenario.

More than anything, I’m just sorry I clearly and apparently value you so little. I’m no one special, but I’m a hell of a lot more important than you. I’d estimate that about half the people I run into on a daily basis wanted to see me deliberately or at least feel happy to interact with me. Who gives a shit about you on purpose? Like who literally needs  to have you around? That’s what I thought. So I’m sorry for everything, but try not to get a big head about it.

—Sarah Heuer wrote this at 5 a.m., and edited it on Vicodin