Not Making it up

When you lost your key, then lost my key, then called me to ask if I could rummage around in your room to look for it, I took this to be a seductive invitation to contract dysentery. 

As I rummaged, I noticed with delight that you are not a person that buys into globalised, polluting mega-corp make up brands that clutter up your cosmetic bag. Instead you have chosen to substitute all these superfluous capitalist excesses with one half-eaten Mars bar. 

It's just so beautifully simple.

Shadow Art Exhibition

For a brief second I was sure that you had just inexplicably dumped the contents of your handbag on the rug this morning, but then I realised what a fool I've been. 

Please excuse me for not recognising your erudite artistry before. 

I actually really enjoyed the shadow art exhibition, and am personally honoured and humbled to have my very own light sculpture by our own front door! I can't wait for you to place an Anglepoise lamp beside it and reveal the silhouette of a really pissed off housemate on the wall.

Microwave it is then..

I admire your passion for cuisine, and your enthusiasm to conjure up complex and sophisticated recipes. I also know that it doesn't mention in The Guide To French Provincial Cooking that you have to wash the pans afterwards. I understand its confusing, but would it be straying too far from the instructions on the page to just leave one pan for me to use? 

Any pan, any thing, just something I can cook in, they are ALL mine after all. 

In twelve hours you have used all the forks, all the wooden spoons, all the frying pans, cheese graters, and chopping boards. I would wash up a few, but you filled the sink with crap and then left the sponge in it so that when I squeezed it, something very similar but not identical to butter came out. 

I bought those sponges damn you, you won't like me when I'm hungry.