After all the memories and and all the years it's time to let go.
My Dearest Crockpot,
I'm ending this.
It's not you, it's me. Well, actually it is you. You and your weird ability to make everything smell like feet or vagina. You and your lure of easy, delicious meals for my family. You and your talk of quick cleanup.
Well, Crockpot. I've had enough. I can't live on empty promises and I can't stand coming home to what I think will be the most wonderful aromas only to find that burning the house down might be the easiest solution to eliminate whatever it is you did to my minestrone soup! Though I know know from experience that dumping your contest over the back fence works equally well (just as long you confirm with your spouse that the steam from the contents won't randomly start some pseudo forest fire!)
Seriously, Crockpot! Why? Why toy with me!? Why pretend you're going to make the witching hours between 4 and 6 a little less chaotic by having dinner waiting for me? Only to decided that, oh wait, you didn't actually do anything more than warm up broth and vegetable but not actually cook them into anything resembling soup!?
You can continue your pleas of usefulness - You need me for your ham and green beans or Pot roast is easier when just thrown in my ceramic bowels. But, no! I'm not falling for it again. I've given you chance after chance after chance. You continuously disappoint and I deserve better than that!
Plus, my pot roast kicks ass even more when it's made in the oven. So suck on that in your loneliness!
So, Crockpot. You must go. Now, while logically I don't want to just toss you in the garbage because you did, indeed, cost me money (or somebody - whoever gave you as a wedding present - hi, thanks for the Crockpot! We love it!) Instead you'll be spending the rest of your days in the back of the cabinet, alone, and slowly starting to smell like dust and old people. I'd make friends with the Cuisinart if I were you. Or the serving platters. They're all you've got now.
I'd file official papers in this situation just to make it all legal and prevent you from luring your way back into my heart. But, you're an inanimate object and, frankly, lack the ability to sign anything anyway. So, the cabinet it is.
I'd like to say I'll think of you fondly. But, at this point all you seem to make me do is dry heave over to the smell of feet and vagina. So, goodbye.
Goodbye burnt chicken thing.
Goodbye soup that never actually souped.
I'm outta here. I've have a cast iron skillet to break in.
