My darling Gene, how I love you,

You quench my thirst like no one else could. The others think they’re better than us with their Stanleys and Hydros, but we know the truth. We’ve been going steady since 1950, unshaken by the fads of youth. You aren’t materialistic; you are down to earth and only care about the adventures we go on together, not how much money I spend on you. And yet, I would happily spend more to add to your multitude of stickers broadcasting the places we’ve been and the love that we share. That doesn’t mean we haven’t had rough patches, like that week I thought I’d lost you, or our many close calls with TSA. You’re so tough, and I’ve always loved that about you. No matter how many times you fall, you roll around until I pick you up, still as beautiful as the day I met you. Truly, I’m a better adventurer –– nay, a better man –– with you, which is why this is so painful to write. It’s not you, it’s me. I wish I could be a no-straw, hair-in-the-wind, independent water bottle-loving kind of guy, but that’s just not who I am anymore. I’ve grown attached to Camelbak, and I can’t keep filling our relationship with lies. I hope you find a new, better granola guy. I hope he drops you so much less than I did.

All my love and reverence,

– S. Morfin