I hate you, oboe.

I hate your ten dollar reeds-yea, you know the ones.
I hate their fragility- how quickly they dry out, how easily they break, or how so few uses result in a tuner's worst nightmare.

I hate how much stress you cause me, oboe. I hate how slim the odds of simultaneously possessing three good reeds are. I hate the feeling of never being good enough to tame your unruly sound.

I hate that I CHOSE you, oboe. In fact, I BEGGED for you!

But, well, then I consider all the good times we've had- tear-jerking solos, years of playing and practicing, auditions and placement tests alike, and simple memories of joy and satisfaction on the days where my reeds were decent.

So I suppose you weren't just a bad, rash decision after all. Over the years I've stressed less and less and become more comfortable with your look, feel, sound, and tambour. I don't regret you, oboe. In fact, thank you, for all the years I've learned you, you've taught me as well. Although we've had our moments now I must say farewell. College approaches quickly as does our expiration date.
So goodbye oboe, I'll still listen for your distinct sound in any orchestra and admire the master behind it, but in the meantime I'll simply go on playing until I cannot play anymore.

(I guess I don't actually hate you, oboe).