Dear gross roommate:
Last night you were drunkenly screaming about how someone stole $300
worth of your best pot. I’ve got news for you. IT WAS ME, YOU FUCKING
ASSHOLE. I JUST CAN’T TAKE LIVING IN THIS GARBAGE DUMP ANYMORE.
I like you, I really do. I’m “down” with the chill vibe in the
place, I can take the parties, even the occasional drug deals are fine.
BUT YOU’VE GOT TO CLEAN UP YOUR FUCKING SHIT. It’s not that hard: Do
your dishes after you eat. Flush the toilet after you poop. Go and get
a wet towel when you spill wine. If there are flies buzzing around your
room, that’s probably a sign that you aren’t doing so well.
So here’s the deal—it’s a simple business transaction. You
clean up the apartment, you get your chronic back. Hell, I’ll even pack
the bong. But until then, I’m keeping your fucking stash and not even
throwing an orange peel into the Ziploc bag to keep it fresh. If you
don’t like it, you can suck my dick.