You don’t do laundry. Fine, I’ll just buy extra Febreze. You sexile me at least twice a week. No biggie, the couch in the living room is pretty comfortable. But don’t eat my fucking food; that’s where I draw the line.
You think I don’t see the bag of tortilla chips sticking out of your drawer? The trail of crumbs leading to your bed or the salsa stains on your sheets? You don’t need Sherlock Holmes to solve this mystery. I can look over the fact that your drunk self eats my Greek Lady leftovers. And that you munch on my Hot Pockets when you’re high.
But forgive me if I get mad when you consciously and blatantly steal from me when you’re sober. No, I don’t remember telling you that you can help yourself to my snacks, so don’t put words in my mouth or my food in yours.
Passive–agresssively yours, The guy sleeping on the couch downstairs
*Note my use of roommate and not friend. Friends don’t eat friends’ food.
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Hey Friend,Look, I was nice enough to only snack on your Corn Pops during your three–hour block of classes on Mondays and Wednesdays; I even put them back exactly where I found them and brushed my teeth right after so you wouldn’t smell ‘em on my breath.
But then one day you decided to skip Ancient Greece and walked in on me mid–feast. The nerve. If you flaunt your pudding cups and granola bars, shit’s gonna get eaten. You’re only enabling me by buying every flavor of Goldfish ever invented. I obviously need to try each one. And what was that stash of Swedish Fish doing in your underwear drawer anyway? Did you really think I wouldn’t find them? For someone who should really watch their calories more (Entenmann’s doughnuts again? Really?), you should thank me for helping jump start your much–needed diet. So yeah, I admit it, I eat your food. You can stop hiding it now.
Hungrily yours, Snackary
P.S You’re out of Oreos. Can you get Double–Stuffed? They taste better.
