Dear Bruff Omelets,

To be honest, I’m not sure how I om-let things go this far. Excuse the pun, I’m using humor as a means to cope with the mental and emotional turmoil you’ve put me through. We had a good run while it lasted, but I don’t know how else to say it — I’m over you.

When the school year started, you were so good to me. You were constant, you were stable. A solid, unfailing breakfast option that helped me start off the day strong. But slowly, I noticed that our once-equal relationship was giving way to something new. I was putting in all the effort: waiting in the painfully long line, forcing conversation with the people waiting alongside me.

As I tried harder and harder to keep the dream of a satisfying breakfast alive, feeling the need to compensate for your increasing shortcomings, they simply compounded. I would wait in the line for half an hour, but you would be undercooked. My friends would be done eating, while I hadn’t even begun, so I would solo-Bruff because I felt the sacrifice was necessary to keep you in my life.

Some mornings, the thought of you was the only thing that would get me out of bed. I’d walk into Bruff Commons, filled with as much excitement as any average human can muster up, pre-coffee, before 10 a.m., just to be tragically disappointed to see you weren’t there. Your inconsistency was appalling. Without you, I felt lost and confused, wandering around Bruff without direction before finally settling on Cinnamon Toast Crunch seasoned with abandonment.

I think the final straw was when I realized I didn’t like the people you surround yourself with. Not being able to get along with your friends really put a strain on our relationship. Waiting in that line, hearing people complain aggressively about how they asked for an omelet and got a ~scramble~ instead was just too much. How an omelet can be fine, but the second the pan filled with the exact same ingredients passes into “scramble” territory it becomes inedible, is beyond me.

I guess this letter is really just a drawn out, public goodbye, in hopes that if anyone catches me trying to go back to you, they’ll stop me. If you catch my longing glances from across Bruff, as I sit, perched at a high table, don’t be alarmed. This split will be less painful if we both know egg-actly where we stand.