First, he took a shower and managed to disorganize all my soaps, shampoos and bubble baths. Then, he left ample proof that he had rummaged through my drawers, which is kind of okay, because let's face it, I would do the same. But then he did the ultimate crime of hygiene and (insert massive gasp), used my toothbrush. I mean "HELLO?" - why not try the big bottle of Scope sitting next to the toothbrush? We may have made out last night, but I'm not down with sharing your plaque. So then, in a desperate attempt to get him off my couch and out of my living room, we go to lunch. I sit through an hour of hearing why he is so awesome and how I could really step up my fashion sense before the dreaded check arrives. I pick it up without hesitation because, let's get serious...is my time really worth being spent on the coy cliche of "are we going dutch or are you going to man up with the cash"? With little objection from him, I pay the $70 and drive him (yes, that's right...I drove too) right back to the very car door he stepped out of when arriving at my house a full 24 hours earlier. I then come upstairs to cleanse the filthiness of my ways right out of my precious apartment when there it is. His lunch box. Yes, he brought a lunch box of snacks in case my fridge was lacking, which was a safe assumption. So, not only did he eat up my entire Sunday with his judgmental arrogance, but he had successfully secured a reason to return to my personal sanctuary.
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| Exhibit A |
Heather Granger
