I wish I could do this. But if I can’t, I am sure as anything glad that there are people in the world who can.
One of my housemates drank the home-brewed beer that my friend Andy gave me for my birthday. It was a nondescript bottle, labeled with Sharpie, waiting between the milk and the ketchup for the special occasion I had been saving it for. Not a specific special occasion, but perhaps a Friday night when I had my wool socks on and my friends around me.
Apparently, someone else had a greater need than I. I’m resisting the urge to leave a passive aggressive sticky note, as I know it wouldn’t be becoming for a twenty-two year old to pout, or to throw a tantrum on the linoleum.
So I’m in my room, taking small bites out of The Faerie Queen and scowling at Sunday night and all it implies.
And watching Slam, of course.