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.