An open letter to the guy or girl who ate my fruit out of the communal fridge;
Who in the blue fuck do you think you are? Surely you had to know it wasn’t yours and yet I picture the fat, knobby sausage links you call fingers glistening with the juice of honeydew as your hand approached your grinning, thieving mouth and realized you enjoyed it. I picture you leaning back and laughing as you use the back of your polyester sleeve to wipe the excess nectar from your gaping hole. I figured with someone as disgustingly fat as you must mean that my fruit was probably safe. I could see you stealing pork rinds or chocolate muffins, but fruit? No sir.
You probably make a lot more money than me as well, since I make next to the least amount in this company, so you can obviously afford your own fruit. Probably better and more exotic fruit too. Like pomegranates and mango and kiwi.
Or maybe you’re just so anal that you threw it out. Not even checking to make sure if it had reached its expiration. Or maybe it was in the way of your crusty ham sandwich with generic mustard on the heels of stale rye.
Maybe the sight of something so healthy just made you sick. Made you hate your fat self more than you already do, so it had to go. “Get out of my sight, delicious pear” you screamed as your hurled it into the nearest trash can.
Whatever your story is, you’ve ruined my lunch. You’ve ruined my day, and most likely, my life. No longer will I feel safe dropping off a bag of fresh cut strawberries and a handful of grapes. No longer will I bring anything. I will merely waste away in silence. You’ll find me when you begin to notice the smell. If you’re not sure what that smell is, well, it’s pretty close to your ham sandwich.
I hate you. I hope you choke on the pulp of an orange. And I hope it’s my orange.
Love, The Purveyor Of Fruit, Erin Harkes.
Who in the blue fuck do you think you are? Surely you had to know it wasn’t yours and yet I picture the fat, knobby sausage links you call fingers glistening with the juice of honeydew as your hand approached your grinning, thieving mouth and realized you enjoyed it. I picture you leaning back and laughing as you use the back of your polyester sleeve to wipe the excess nectar from your gaping hole. I figured with someone as disgustingly fat as you must mean that my fruit was probably safe. I could see you stealing pork rinds or chocolate muffins, but fruit? No sir.
You probably make a lot more money than me as well, since I make next to the least amount in this company, so you can obviously afford your own fruit. Probably better and more exotic fruit too. Like pomegranates and mango and kiwi.
Or maybe you’re just so anal that you threw it out. Not even checking to make sure if it had reached its expiration. Or maybe it was in the way of your crusty ham sandwich with generic mustard on the heels of stale rye.
Maybe the sight of something so healthy just made you sick. Made you hate your fat self more than you already do, so it had to go. “Get out of my sight, delicious pear” you screamed as your hurled it into the nearest trash can.
Whatever your story is, you’ve ruined my lunch. You’ve ruined my day, and most likely, my life. No longer will I feel safe dropping off a bag of fresh cut strawberries and a handful of grapes. No longer will I bring anything. I will merely waste away in silence. You’ll find me when you begin to notice the smell. If you’re not sure what that smell is, well, it’s pretty close to your ham sandwich.
I hate you. I hope you choke on the pulp of an orange. And I hope it’s my orange.
Love, The Purveyor Of Fruit, Erin Harkes.
If it makes you feel any better, the damn blueberries stained my new white shirt. Thanks for choosing safer fruit in the future, unless you want to pay for dry cleaning or new clothes.
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