As I watch you rotate like a useless convenience store hot dog on my new leather sofa, I am struck by your insensitivity. Your crime was thoughtless which makes the pain all the more acute. I watch the crumbs spread out in your beard in a diasporal manner and contemplate the many ways to end your life. As you right hand clutches my last remaining pop-tart I am reminded of a bloated bear invading a campsite and then falling asleep at said campsite with the goods still in hand.
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Not that this was your first encroachment on my territory. Apparently not satisfied with the potency of your Hi Karate cologne you decided to help yourself to my Calvin Klein Eternity for men. A few squirts would have been fine. A half-bottle later our apartment smelled like the bathroom at Studio 54. Your disco shoes and cavalier attitude matched perfectly.
As I dream of your quick demise I am flooded with another memory of a past indiscretion. Your foray into my bed with your rotund sweetheart while I was out of town still creates such sweet revulsion. My sheets, well irrigated with your lover’s fishy oil, brought explosive tears to my eyes. I embarked on the Sisyphean task of washing and stain removal but to no avail. Alas, I sacrificed the tainted sheets to the gods of Goodwill. I still suffer immeasurable guilt thinking of the poor bastard who now snuggles his face next to that tuna essence – dreaming of finding Nemo.
While your worthless cat eats the crumbs out of your raggedy beard I envision its next shit that will remain in the litter box for eons. As the mouser smiles at me and licks its shitty paws I can hear its digestive system forming a handsomely sized log which I will be forced to scoop out of the litter box due to toxic fumes permeating the living room. I can’t help but think that in certain countries cats are a delicacy. Mr. Whiskers here should be no exception. Die Mr. Whiskers! Die roommate!