“You’re goddamn right I was saving those plums for breakfast.
Fine, it’s not like they’re my favorite food in the world, but I mean, they’re a seasonal fruit, you scumbag. Buy your own food for a change. All you do is sit around the house all day writing about red wheel-barrows and junk.
This is like the millionth time I’ve come home to an empty fridge. And no, leaving a note does not cut it anymore. I don’t care if you put one of your idiotic poems on there. I grind my fingers to the bone all day. I’m a stenographer—that’s serious work. I type over 250 words per minute!
If I find one more note taped to the bathroom mirror with some garbage like this . . .
this is just to say I am sorry I used your toothpaste it’s all gone and I have gingivitis there’s some raspberry floss left under the cabinet but it’s gross and expired . . . I’m going to break your face.
I type over 250 words per minute!
Fakes: An Anthology of Pseudo-Interviews, Faux-Lectures, Quasi-Letters, "fo...
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