I really shouldn’t hafta say this more than once…
Scratch that, I shouldn’t hafta say this at all.
Clean out the fucking animal blood you spilled inside the fridge!
Dear Random Dude,
I have no doubt that we knew each other once.
In fact, it was probably during my- well, my least than proud days.
But the fact of the matter is, things have changed.
I’m not that same dude desperate for attention from men. Don’t get me wrong, that guy isn’t entirely dead, but- well, let me reframe things for you.
Just got a new phone, so I don’t have most of my old numbers.
I go to sleep one night, only to wake up to a number I don’t recognize and a- well, it was a graphic picture.
Not only is it too early for that shit, but… seriously?
No words in the text message. Just the horrific image.
Even though I’m into dudes, not exactly the most appealing part of the anatomy.
I mean, honestly, has sending just your penis ever worked for you?
Cuz it ain’t workin’ for me.
Please lose my number.
Dear Chicken Breast,
What’s your game? I mean, here you are, tasting all delicious, but it comes at a price.
I mean, touching raw chicken breast is absolutely disgusting.
You’re slimy and sometimes you stick to that weird paper that soaks up your juices or whatever it is… ya know, I actually don’t like to think about it.
Even talking about it makes me a little gaggy.
But then, I smother you in hot sauce and take a bite and it’s game over.
I want to forgive you for being so gross to touch.
So do I give up on you, chicken? Ir do I just ask my roommates to touch you, like I did yesterday when i had to put an uncooked chicken breast in a plastic bag to save for later?
Either way, I’m not sure I’m ready to give up on meat again. I’m just not sure I’m ready to cook it either.