Thursday, December 17, 2009

Dearest Chocolate Peter Griffin,

How goes it?

Great, huh?

Yeah.

Well, I actually don't care. Not one damn bit. Our little "mutually beneficiary" (as you said) living situation has gone from tolerable to homicide- and/or suicide-inducing in record time. And before we part, I must get some things off my teenage girl's muscleless chest.

First off, Jumping Jack Flab, the fact that you corner me and run down your fat man's woes as soon as I push the door open does NOT indicate concern. Notice how I now enter with the phone to my ear, without fail. In one month (literally) you've proven yourself to be unworthy of my communication. Your logic is tragically flawed and conversations with you are as pleasurable as a syphilis test.

I felt it worth mentioning that I was initially grateful that you've opened your home to me when I needed a quick way out of the last situation. As I learned yet again, when I procrastinate with apartment hunting, I tend to have to settle for less-than-ideal circumstances.

And settle, I did.



Perhaps the large bedroom, convenient location, treadmill in the living room and spacious closet caused me to overlook the obvious mismatch. The disaster in the kitchen should have sent up red flags signaling a total lack of hygiene. A sign of trouble ahead should have been the lack of cleaning products. No spray bottles filled with unmarked chemical mixtures. Not even a punk ass can of Ajax. I was welcomed with a mound of dishes and a disgusting fridge, stove, and microwave that you promised to clean.

You lied, fat man.

I (stupidly) overlooked these things, thinking I'd rather live with you than the handful of others that responded to my craigslist ad. Hell, being with another colored person should have been better than playing Negro Cultural Ambassador to Heather Ann Whitewoman or Magdalena Mexican, right?

Wrong.

Living with you has been one disappointment after another. Your eagerness at finding a "brother" in me was a tad McCreepy. Bestowing me with the title of your "Bro-Bro" was as annoying as it was alienating. Yes, both our ancestors picked cotton and were raped and abused by their Masters, but we are not brothers. I was raised by a loving family that instilled values and people skills in me. For example, my family showed me that last week's dishes have no business in the sink this week.

You and your C cups were clearly the product of first cousins. First cousins who raised you on twice-baked potatoes and Gerber's BabySumo Weight Gain Formula breastmilk. First cousins that regularly cooked dinner and put the entire uncovered pot/pan/skillet in the fridge...and cursed you with that God-awful Baldamore accent. *shakes fist*

When I moved in, there was no hand soap in the bathroom. This means you don't normally wash after you tinkle. With that said, and having observed your other sanitary "habits" (trashcan on the kitchen counter, really?) it should be clear why I continually decline your offers to taste that "bomb ass chicken" you insist on making. Add to this the fact that you then put the remaining uncooked chicken breasts, uncovered, on the top shelf in the fridge...resulting in a lovely shower of chicken juice and blood on everything in the fridge. Clearly you have a little dick are not to be trusted.

Apparently you skipped a month of rent months before I moved in. However there was some type of "arrangement" with management. Then, you violate the lease by renting the room out to me without notifying management. This has created big problems. These things are not the racial issues you make them out to be. This is business. So what if the management "brings up old shit" and demands that $1000 you owe from May? Labeling yourself as the victim here is inaccurate. You brought unsuspecting, skinny me into your fat man's troubles. Now, we must move out much earlier than originally planned. As recently as today you refuse to take the blame, citing us as "victims of circumstance." This, sir, is yet another example of your flawed logic.

Your remorse for bringing me into this situation would be touching to the next clown, but the fact still remains that you, Canned Hamburglar, are as useless as Missy Elliott's birth control prescription. Please discontinue all attempts to find a new roommate. You absolutely need to live at fat camp or in a cave alone.

This experience leads me to four conclusions:

  1.  If you didn't have a child, I would be most certain that you were still a virgin. You are devoid of hygeine, people skills, and cool. How any woman with the correct number of chromosomes could allow your Pilsbury love inside her is baffling to me. And disgusting.
  2.  Fuck your beats.




    Note: This is an OLD picture. 
    You, "Cashis Clay", left me a CD of your beats and production "in case [I] want to dance or chograph to anything on it". Songs include: "The Hart", "Child Hood" (two words), "Politics N Da Clubb", "Ladiez N Me,"and other gems. I prejudged based on the artwork and titles alone. After listening: No, thanks. You've made it clear that the only things you can successfully produce are babies and backfat. KEEP THAT SHIT.

    You suggested we get a new apartment together. The way you live your life and handle your business, I would literally rather sleep in the middle of the street. Like, IN the intersection. *middle finger*

    Additionally, when you say we'll "keep in cahoots" (slurring the word with that ridiculous Baltimore twang) to denote staying in touch, I fight the urge to dropkick you in the sternum. Not only do you use it incorrectly, but you're using that phrase about two centuries out of context. Bastard.
I have overlooked many things during our time together. I must take some of the blame in allowing things to get this far. (See how easy accepting the blame is?) I hope that your beloved steak burritos and granny porn (evidence here) treat you and your expanding waistline well. Since your "wife" has whisked your offspring to Japan, I don't see many other options for you. If you would maneuver on the treadmill (which sits in the living room) the way you maneuver around facts, responsibility, and BLAME there could be some hope for you.

Until then, fuck you very much.

Sincerely,

Your skinny roommate.

-chris.alexander

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