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Dear Irish Spring,
I guess you've known it for a long time, but it's time to put it in words. I love you. I love you more than I can possibly say. All I can hope is that this letter somehow conveys just a tenth of the amount of love I have for you. Every time I wash with you, it makes me think how lucky I am to share some time smelling your sweet, sweet aroma and letting you run all over my body.
Remember when we first met? I was in Los Angeles two years ago. I'd been walking for miles when I got lost. Too scared to sit alongside the common people on the buses, I traipsed for two miles through sweltering May sunshine, making my armpits the mustiest things on Earth. I was in desperate need of a shower, and so I went into a pharmacy to buy some soap.
The gay guy behind the counter - it was in West Hollywood, so I assume the pharmacist was gay - said "You should try the Irish Spring." Oh my word, what a recommendation. It was the smartest thing anyone's ever said to me. It meant more to me than that time the person I was sleeping with said yes, they would wear a condom. It meant more to me than that Arab who decided not to get on my flight and blow me up in mid-air. Here's a picture I drew of you and I sharing our love:
 I remember seeing you there, sitting in your blue box. Irish Spring Fresh. Three simple words, with the promise "Feel Waterfall Clean!" And you kept your promise. Like a sexy, naughty minx you made me feel dirty and clean at the same time. I love your smell, I love the way you lather up so easily. Sometimes I sneak into the bathroom to wash my hands with you just so I can smell you once again. You're not like those inferior British soaps. I kept using one particular brand and over time it gave me a really bad rash. Red itchy blotches turned into brown patches. It was so annoying, and I was worried because for about 10 seconds I thought I might have caught AIDS or have cancer. Thankfully, neither was true and after the doctor gave me some tablets and cream the spots cleared up. I don't use that soap anymore! But like Romeo and Juliet our love story is tinged with tragedy. See, I live in Britain and you live in America. I can't buy you over here. Last time I was in America, I bought nine bars of you to take home. But because I need you so badly, I'm running out. I hope we get to meet again. You're the sexiest soap in the world and I want everyone to know it. Long live Irish Spring!
Love,
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