Dear Mr. Tastee,
Your mother and I brought you here today because we think there is something you should know. We have been thinking a lot about your place in the family over the last few months, and it is increasingly apparent that you don’t belong to us. In fact, in no way do you resemble your sister, your mother, or me, either in your appearance or in your beliefs. It seems possible that you were switched in the hospital, and puberty seems to have done nothing to change you. We are ashamed whenever the neighbors stare, and this family’s cohesion is far more important than your well-being. We feel that we have no choice but to release you to the whims of the streets of suburbia, even at the tender age of thirteen and three months, as you like to point out to everyone we meet.
Actually I lied, that speech isn’t for you at all. I am merely projecting onto you the words that led to my first encounter with the scourge you inflict on the outlying suburbs of major cities. Your banana milkshake may be the Nectar of the Gods, but seven years and ten months later, I am cream-filled and still at the corner of Forest Avenue and Springfield Pike. I miss my family. The ringing in my ears has begun to sound like your aural strangulation, and I fiend for your creamy concoction like some sort of smack addict.
This is awkward; will I see you tomorrow?