A Post-St. Guinness Day Letter

Dear That Guy,

I let you crash at my place after St. Guinness Day because I drove all the way to Watertown to pick your ass up just so you could hang out with Ben and Jen instead of staying at home, and I didn't want to cart your ass all the way back at 2 am afterwards. I told you to help yourself to the leftover shepherd's pie and eggs in my fridge for breakfast and let you stay there as long as you wanted after I left for work because I trusted you to find your own way out. And what did you do?!

When I came home from work I found you'd stolen my cloves and ashed into the empty bottle of my very last beer (which I so courteously let you have before going to bed), THUS MAKING IT IMPOSSIBLE TO RECYCLE AND STINKING UP THE HOUSE BECAUSE YOU LEFT IT RIGHT THERE IN THE GODDAMN LIVING ROOM. Dude, you KNOW I bought a closed ashtray for just such occasions. YOU LIVED HERE. You know where it was kept! I even said it was okay to smoke cloves in the house because occasionally *I* need a clove to alleviate stress too! BUT YOU NEED TO SMOKE YOUR OWN GODDAMN CLOVES, YOU BROKE ASS DJARUM-STEALING BUM. And go get the damn ashtray that's right by the sink, 20 steps from where you were probably sitting and ashing into that goddamn beer. Do you know how bad ashes and old beer smell when they've been marinating all day long?! We are not at a Tiff and Mike party, thank you very much, we dispose of used tobacco in the PROPER receptacle because we are in no danger of overflow here (and if it turns out we are because you smoked ALL my cloves in one go, well, we will have some REAL problems here).

Speaking of REAL PROBLEMS, let me address the SECOND little gift you left behind. Oh yes, I FOUND A SHIT STREAK ON MY TOILET SEAT. Left side, halfway down between cheek and thigh. I could understand a little post-Guinness projectile action on the back of the bowl, but we are talking about THE SEAT, man, THE SEAT! That's just not right. Do we have issues here?! How do you even GET shit on the edge of the seat? Were you pooping crooked or something?! Was it coming out so fast that in your haste to reach the bathroom, you sat down wrong? Did your anus somehow migrate out to the left side of you since we stopped dating? Or maybe it's because your new girlfriend got angry one night and ripped you a new one for smoking all her cloves and leaving a mess behind, and that's why you have trouble using the can. You know what? Doesn't matter. That's the ONLY explanation I could find solace in as I scrubbed my can free of your caked-on skeet. I gotta tell ya man, the moral of that story is that you need to stop stealing cloves.

In conclusion, screw you with a pine cone covered in goat cheese. I'm so glad you don't live here anymore.

Most Sincerely,
-Me

Further bulletins as events warrant.