GET YOUR ORANGE HANDS OUT OF MY FACE.

Dear Cheetos kid,
I know I haven't seen your prematurely mustached face since you sat behind me in World History sophomore year. You were probably a nice kid but I can't seem to recall those details. I don't really remember a thing from World History. Except for the use of the guillotine during the French Reign of Terror. Would you like to know why I remember the guillotine?
Because all I wanted to do during that class was stick your cheetos-covered, freshly licked fingers under the blade and sever them from the rest of your filthy hands.
You are the reason I no longer eat cheetos.
It wasn't the fact that you ate an entire bag of cheetos puffs every single day, at 9:00 in the morning.
It's the way you felt the need to lick every single finger after every single time you stuck a cheeto in your mouth.
It's how your orange appendages forced me to remember a joke all the pre-puberty boys whispered to each other in 7th grade; it was the first time I ever overheard the phrase "jacking off". It involved cheetos. Thanks for the scarring flashback, bud.
It's how you raised your hand to answer a question and continued to chew on your cheetos with your mouth open and orange chunks stuck in your teeth while you talked about how you want to convert to Confucianism.
It's how every time I had to pass back a sheet of paper from Mr. Tillotson you decided to shove those flaming claws in my face and cover the paper in a film of sticky orange goo. I can imagine poor Mr. T grading your papers and trying to identify the orange, potentially toxic substance covering the corner of each assignment. I sure hope you got a grade drop because of it.

You must be blinded by a cloud of orange powder because you obviously don't see people's reaction to your eating habits. Unless it's the creepy girl from the Breakfast Club who shakes out her dandruff to pretend it's snowing, there is no member of the opposite sex that I can think of that would be sexually aroused by the sight of your fiery sausage links. Good luck asking a girl to prom when your face is smothered in that sticky concoction of spit and artificial cheese.
Thank you so much for helping me develop an innate ability to sense the presence of cheetos being eaten. It has succeeded in making me sick to my stomach for a good two years now.
Thank you for ruining my relationship with Chester the Cheetah.
I hope you puke orange chunks.
Sincerely,
Samantha