Let me start this letter by saying that at one point, I had high hopes for you. You would go grocery shopping every Sunday, stock me with fruits and vegetables, and actually consume healthy meals. But recently, you’ve been acting like a sad college freshman who steals bread and bananas from the Emerson campus cafeteria. Except now you’re 32 and you’re supposed to actually be able to take care of yourself like an adult.
It’s been a gradual decline into this level of pathetic-ness. Week by week, my food reserves have become more and more sparse, and now I have to call you out. My primary job is to keep water cold and to store half-stale bottles of salad dressing and hot sauce. The few times I do contain food, it’s jars of banana peppers which you greedily consume in two days. And don’t get me started on what you’ve been eating for dinner. Starburst is only considered dinner when you’re 5.
And what’s with the Red Bull? You hate Red Bull. Yet there’s always a nice tidy 4-pack chilling on my middle shelf. Watching you guzzle a can before your 7am workout is entertaining, mostly because your face contorts in a hideous wince as you realize it tastes like sugary carbonated poison.
One last thing: stop making a New Years Resolution to learn how to cook. You’ve failed at it every year since 2003. No one believes you anymore. Just own it and accept the fact that you’ll never graduate past heating up soup. And you’ve even messed that up a few times.
Love, your Kenmore