Dear Soap,
If, when you squirt out green and squishy in my palm, you destroy all the bacteria in my entire body and then replace it with aloe vera and olive oil, can I really expect to be the same person I was before I bathed in the green waters of your fountain?
When you and I have danced together I sniff my hands and discover that my hands smell like the milk of certain vegetables. I must admit that I did not know that vegetables had milk.
Soap, every day at least once I must wipe a congealed glob of green from your spout like you were a three year old child with a constant supply of snot. Both the child’s nose and your childish nose amaze me. Where does it all come from?
The child has a mother with an equally steady supply of tissues concealed in her bosom or purse, but, Soap, when I wipe your spout I use my bare hands. That’s love, that is.
But Soap, I confess, it’s coming to an end. Soon I will have used all I can of you and I will move on. I’m avaricious that way.
I’m not sure I should tell you this. I think, as the classless Americans say, that it lacks class. But I need you to know that I’m moving on to jojoba and honey, a pus-coloured near-relation of yours. I just don’t think green is an appropriate colour for soap.
In the meantime, I remain,
Your affectionate,
Me.
