We need to talk, Empty Fridge. It’s not that I don’t trust you; it’s that I’m concerned. You obviously have not been taking care of yourself. What happened to the whole grains and the soy protein and the yeast infection-preventing acidophiles of yesteryear? You used to drink blue-green algae for fucks sake!
I’m glad to see you’re drinking filtered water, but that bowl in the back is empty isn’t it? Don’t lie. I know you put it there to make us think that you ate a salad last night. But here’s the thing, Empty Fridge: everyone knows salad doesn’t keep. And you didn’t even bother to close the bag of Easter-themed M&Ms? It’s not even Easter yet.
Hey, what’s that? NEW CASTLE??? You are way too old for that, Empty Fridge. College freshman drink New Castle because they think it’s a good beer just because it comes from some industrial shithole in the UK. Well, Empty Fridge, it’s not good beer. It’s beer with honey in it. It’s beer for people who do not drink beer. You would drink Smirnoff Ice if you could, wouldn’t you?
Is that what the orange juice is for, Empty Fridge? For your girlypuss mixed drinks? Oh god. It’s orange juice from Teeter. There’s a co-op next door to Teeter, isn’t there, Empty Fridge? The only reason to go to Teeter is for frozen pizza and Doritos on your way back from the bar at 2:30 in the morning, both of which you will eat with the Bartles & Jaymes hidden in your toilet tank, a storage place that both fools your girlfriend into thinking you don’t drink at home anymore and keeps said Bartles & Jaymes chilled.
And immediately after eating the frozen pizza—which you may or may not top with extra oregano and the aforementioned Doritos—you will take a burning shower to remove the smell of cigarettes from your hair and extremities because you quit smoking six months ago but Just Couldn’t Resist at the bar tonight. Also, you forget to use soap. This shower will last a while, Empty Fridge. It will last until you have depleted the entire building’s supply of hot water and you wake up in the tub shivering and still reeking of Pall Malls.
And then, Empty Fridge, you will pass out naked and wet on your Wal-Mart futon until you are unexpectedly woken by your 7:30 alarm, already running late for your job at the nursery. Not the plant nursery, Empty Fridge. The baby nursery. The nursery where those pygmy humans you love so much hang out while their parents are earning six figures and thinking about the secretary’s legs.
You don’t have to hide anymore, Empty Fridge. The truth is out.