Hey, they’ve said some bad things about you in the news lately. Your profits are down, you’ve had to close some stores … people just don’t support you they way they once did.

Baby, look me in the eyes. There’s something I want you to tell you that’s going to make it all better. I don’t care what the others say: I will never give up my addiction to your expensive, unhealthful product.

Ever since we started seeing each other in college, you’ve become as much a part of my day as the spam I get from “doctors” in Nigeria. I remember when we first met: you tempted me with your sugary café mocha, knowing I wasn’t much of a coffee drinker.

“It’s like hot chocolate,” you said in your sultry, corporate voice. “You love hot chocolate … c’mon, handsome. Drink from me and live forever.” Pretty soon, that harmless mocha became a quad venti no whip soy pumpkin spice latte with four pumps of hazelnut. I was a convulsing, penniless junkie with too many cavities for his age.

Darling, I understand why you chose the Siren as your logo. The song of your overpriced coffee seduced me, and now I’m here to stay. Who cares about recent economic downturn, the mortgage-lending nightmare and nationwide job insecurity? I know where I’m putting at least $5 a day, sometimes twice a day depending how bad my shakes are. That down payment for a condo will have to wait another decade.

True, shnookums, we’ve had our share of rough spots. There was the summer of 2005 when you got me hooked on strawberry squares, only to pull them out of your pastry case for good that autumn, dismissing them as a second-class, “seasonal” item. I filled out my comment card, I tried to make you understand, but you were resolute. Oh, did I see a different side of you then, my darling. A different side indeed.

But I forgave you. As my love is everlasting and your product is physically addictive, I couldn’t hold a grudge. You simply wouldn’t let me.

Our happiness returned, perhaps with more passion than before, because then we knew we could survive a bump. I started seeing you more frequently: in the afternoon for a Frappuccino, at bedtime for a decaf nightcap … we were having the relationship we’d always wanted.

And then you changed again. You discontinued your Valencia syrup without asking my opinion, without thinking of what it might do to us. “Try the orange mocha,” you said, attempting to keep the peace, insulting my taste buds and the years of devotion I’d put into that flavor. “I think you’ll find it’s a lot like the Valencia,” … but nothing could ever be like the Valencia. Alas, the orange syrup failed me too, and soon you took her off your menu as well, as if to silently beg me back into your affections.

My dearest, I didn’t have the heart to tell you this until now, but when I found out what you had done to Valencia, I did something rash. Passion is a powerful force and I gave in to its wicked impulses. With shame I admit today that for a week I was secretly seeing Seattle’s Best Coffee.

I know, my love—please calm yourself. I know, it is an insult made doubly worse by the fact that you own Seattle’s Best and she is like a daughter to you. If I had had my affair with Caribou or Tully’s or even Peet’s for Pete’s sake … maybe then you could forgive me. I understand if you won’t be getting my order right for a while, or secretly give me half and half when I ask for skim milk. If you want me to sleep on the couch and wake up with Dunkin’ Donuts then, my sweetness, I will accept my punishment.

But only because I’m physically addicted to your high-octane mixture of caffeine and simple sugars. Addicted so passionately that you can rest assured the economy will never steal you from me.

Your extra-hot foamy lover,

Homer