You are a wily temptress; a sneaky minx; a dirty rhymes-with-witch.
You wrangled me in with your citrusy aroma, only to burn my tongue and, subsequently, other parts of me as I spilled you everywhere in a fit of confusion and horror.
I don't know how you do it, but somehow you manage to simultaneously make me feel better and give me the sudden and uncontrollable urge to vomit.
If chalk could go sour, I'm pretty sure it would taste just like you.
I hate you, Theraflu.
Don't ever leave me.