Roommates

Dear Cory,

Look, I remember the verbal agreement we made that night you came into the kitchen and turned on the light. Haven’t forgotten it. No, sir. But here’s the deal. I’ve had a few kids. And by “a few”, I mean a thousand - don’t hate the player. And, well, they gotta eat, so why’d you freak out like that?

Now I’ll admit bringing out the whole family like that was a little much. But it was Saturday night. You know, or at least I thought you did, that’s when I take the whole family out for a meal. Not trying to pour salt in any wounds, but I mean, what were you doing home so early?

Besides, how could you leave those pizza boxes wide open if you didn’t want us snacking on them?! And those tasty bread crumbs under the toaster? You were begging us to eat them!

I just can’t believe you freaked out and set those traps. You sprayed little Johnny! Sure, he was a bit impetuous, but so full of youth and promise. Now he just runs in circles, licking his antenna.

How about throwing away the traps and wiping up some of that poison that’s souring up the fruit rinds my wife ate. For two weeks, she thought she was a ladybug.

I’ll tell you what, Cory, let’s make an oath to each other. You do your best to stay out all night, and I’ll keep the numbers down. I won’t even sweat you flushing a few of the kids down the toilet from time to time. Can always make more, right?!

Long live weak, generic trash bags, and thirty-something year old lazy, single guys!

Yours truly,

C. Roacha