POINT: DEAR I LOVE YOU BUT THERE'S LARGE PIECES OF TRASH IN OUR DINNER
by Melvin Beechman
My dearest dear. I pray I am not one to disturb what whimsies you had planned for your day, but I did want to draw attention to the fact that, although we have been through this before, there are clods of raw and rancid garbage in our dinner. Just look at this tart clump of gunk upon my plate.
Is this, should this, be something we talk about? I know we've been welded together for the last several months whilst the throes of virulent mayhem sweeps the world around us, but I have to admit I am growing increasingly alarmed by the number of meals wherein I must pluck gob after gob of festering refuse from the very food I am about to consume. Have you noticed?
I am extremely curious. At which point does the trash get into the food? Is it at the grocery store? Do the recipes call for plastic wrap, scraps of other food and old receipts? Perhaps this is official Covid eating, with all the unrecycled, stagnant organic waste that we must all find a place for?
Forgive my audacity -- I certainly don't mean to insinuate anything, especially in this fragile environment of endless friction that the virus has forged. Certainly, if the stuffed peppers call for handfuls of dust and grit; if the lemonade tastes best, soured by the fetid pungence of a dirty rag, then by all means, let's drink to the miserable horribleness of this moment and never speak again of all the detritus I've digested lately.
COUNTERPOINT: YOUR BEARD SMELLS LIKE A DEAD WILDEBEEST AND YOU'RE A PANSY
by Harriet Beechman
I've given up you sad bastard, and I can't believe you've been just eating this crap. You know where all the garbage came from? Because you stopped paying the garbage bill. And long before that, you stopped taking the garbage out. Do you not remember us talking at some point, maybe back in early March, about how all the 10-gallon bags were piling up in the kitchen, and you were like, "Yea, I gotta take this out before the whole world goes crazy," now here we are, literally months later, and there's mountains of trash everywhere!
I don't know how you've haven't noticed slime oozing into everything. Every night I point out something gross you're eating, and you just stare at your phone and ignore me completely, and just chew. You just chew, Melvin, you chew. Even now you're gnawing on week-old onion rings and a muddy sock! In your sandwich!
But you want to know what really pushed me over the edge? Just serving you a hot plate of garbage the other night and watching you fall asleep on it, snoring loudly in a thunderous slurp. That's when I finally felt my soul dying. Now your beard smells like a decaying ungulate's corpse--the whole apartment reeks, our existence reeks--and I can't get the image out of my head from you screaming in the bathroom about a little spider and the fact that I had to come kill it. I've, like, I've just about had it, Melvin.
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