Sike. That was me. Ghosts aren’t real, you dwat.
“What’s a dwat? Is that like a daft twat?”
I just saidtwat. Out loud. I’m on a roll.
If my uncle isn’t one of these ghosts, he’ll be livid.
Thatfucker.
“Rest in Hell, unc. You aren’t so scary without your soap, are you?”
I hoist my newly feathered bird finger righteously in the air, channeling the confidence of a mediocre white man on the internet. “Nobody liked you. On the entire planet. And I hope Satan made you his little bitch.”
I snort laugh into my collapsing, cursing hand, which triggers raucous guffaws. Bending at the waist, I crack up until I forget what was so funny to begin with.
Cussing is fun. I’m so warm.
And totally high.
Feigning sobriety, I rifle through the fridge, taking out anything that looks good. I end up with a brick of mild cheddar cheese, a bottle of ketchup, and a tub of sour cream.
“Not quite the makings of a gourmet meal, huh?”
The ghosts continue playing dead. Classic ghosts.
Spinning around, I fling open cabinets to locate the pantry. I find my target behind door number three.
My vision rocks somewhat as I scan Reed’s dry goods offerings. Crackers.Check. A jar of olives.Check. Onto the counter they go.
A critical component of any diet-breaking episode is lacking. But I have faith that Reed’s kitchen won’t let me down in my time of need and missing inhibitions.
Determined to locatemy precious, I slide the canned goods to the side, then knock over a cereal box.
“For the love of Cookie Monster, I demand you present what I crave the most!”
Quaking in fear, the pantry yields to my powerful manifestation.
And there it is.The bane of my existence and the object of my every desire.
Nutter Butter cookies.
Not as good as homemade, but they’ll do.
Houston, we are go for gluttony.
I retrieve the cookies, holding them up like the presentation of Simba. “Ladies, gents, and ghosts of unknown gender, I present to thee, the Holy Grail.”
Scooping up the rest of my loot, I sashay to the couch and prepare to stuff my face gleefully.
Obviously, I start with the cookies. After downing three of them, potentially without chewing, I unwrap the cheese block. With the top inch exposed, I glance between the kitchen and the cheese three times. No knife to slice it.
I could get up and get one, but that seems excessive, doesn’t it? With the walking and all. Unfortunately, I don’t know how to wield the Force to levitate a utensil to me, so I’ll need to eat the disappointing cheese another way.
Related: Who buys mild cheddar when sharp or even medium exists? That’s the Reediest thing in this entire apartment. He probably nibbles it on untoasted, butterless, white bread.That poor man.Without me to give him pizazz, he’s the personification of the color beige.
Shrugging, I take a bite straight from the block. Then one more to ensure it’s still bland. Unfortunately, it is. After abandoning the subparfromageon the coffee table, I move onto the sour cream. When I pop off the lid, I’m smacked with the pungent stench of spoiled dairy.
It’s already sour, but this is a bit too sour for my tastes.
