The forty year old roommate

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I need help. It’s not working out anymore. My mind can’t remember what I’ve cooked and eaten, or whose dishes are whose, or who bought what apples.

I’m too old to have you as roommate.

I ate another green apple today, only I’m not sure it was mine.

I was sure enough—to open the plastic wrapped bag, take one out—but that was yesterday. Today, there’s another apple missing, and I only had one. Now I’m thinking, are you eating my apples, or am I eating yours?

You have loud sex. I know your homosexual, but please understand, it only offends me cause I’m jealous. I hate you—cause I’m envious—which I think makes me a pretty good person.  It sounds like fun, but at forty years old, I don’t know if I should be telling you to be quiet, or if I’ve already revealed way too much about how closely I’ve been listening.

The potatoes!

I noticed three cooked baked potatoes. I made them about two weeks ago, and thought I had eaten them all. But here they are. Three more! I feel terrible. They have all this stuff on them. Or, is that herbs? No, I don’t use herbs on my potatoes. They are growths and these potatoes are going in the garbage. Done.

Today, the  potatoes have been taken out of the garbage and are now in the fridge. Oh, God. They were yours. Oh, it’s painful. I’m so sorry. Please refrain from looking at me scornfully as we pass one another in the hall.


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