I noticed you haven’t responded to any of my texts, Facebook messages, e-cards, handwritten letters, sticky notes on your door, or the feelings diagram I placed on your pillow So, here I am, in the Campus Times.
Things are going to have to change between us now.
The next time you want to use the kitchen table or close my windows or you want to wash your dishes while I’m bathing in the sink, then that is your problem.
Last week, I bent my wrist while working on my parkour routine (which will take us to the Boise Idaho finals this year). Did you even ask how I was? When I was moaning in agonizing pain while pointing out all of your dirty dishes to you, did you even think about asking me how I felt?
No. You only think of yourself.
The next time I find your half-eaten Wegmans rotisserie chicken, I’m placing it on your bed, because it’s completely disrespectful to leave it in the fridge in marked tupperware. It’s just rude to flaunt your rotisserie chicken when you know I’m on a vegan, all-carb diet. And I don’t care what your initials are!
I’m not washing any dishes anymore (even my own), and you’re dang-flabbin’ welcome for cleaning your plate for you after you left it sitting there for two hours. I know you never asked me to do that and I never complained to you about it before, but that’s because doing dishes excited me until I decided to write this manifesto.
You’re welcome that my God-fearing husk of a boy toy, Donald (and only Donald), takes the trash to the curb, does my laundry, shaves my legs, and picks my outfits. Do you even know how to do half of those things?
We aren’t going to silence ourselves like you and the liberal media wants, so all of your 2 a.m. “im so tired” messages will go unread because I’m so flippin’ sorry you’re so tired when you’re only taking four classes, doing your extracurriculars, applying for grad schools, studying for the GRE, and Mommy and Daddy Dearest actually love you. Some of us are adults and work and clean and hate ourselves.
Get with the program!
Adults never ask for help while speaking to each other in person. We had to walk a mile uphill both ways in a snowstorm to even look at one another. So you respect all of my passive aggressive notes—it’s a sign of my maturity, and anything else is not the American Way™.
By the way, if you can’t make it to the top by pulling yourself up by your bootstraps and parkouring your way up, then you don’t deserve to be there, like I clearly do. You literally don’t have big enough problems to call home and cry to mommy about. I do.
Yesterday, when you were “studying,” Donald wanted to spend some “alone time” with me. I haven’t been alone with him since March. Why weren’t you there for me? Do you ever think of anyone but yourself?
Also, I have noticed you parading your men about the house. I get that you can have “friends,” but if they are male, they are not your friend. Also, can you please stop playing the “Friends” theme song over and over again? It reminds Donald of the time before we dated and people actually liked him. Also, I don’t like clapping.
Along these lines, have you ever considered that people sleep with you because you’re quick to put out? I know that you have an “I’m Quick to Put Out” tattoo on your ass, but I am choosing to ignore that for this point.
Your sexuality is hurting people’s feelings. Did you ever think about that? Because it’s hurting mine. And Donald’s. And our bed’s. And we haven’t banged the gavel since “My Cousin Vinny” came out on VHS, and I mostly blame you for that.
All in all, just listen to me. Really, listen. Life isn’t going to be easy for you—mostly because I won’t let it be.
So get over it. And fetch me some ice for my wrist. It’s sore from typing this tirade.