Dear My Apartment,
Please stop swallowing my scissors.
No seriously, stop it. You have swallowed many things before, and I have yet to find them in the year and a half that I have been dwelling inside you.
But I let it all pass.
My scissors, on the other hand. That shit’s fucked up.
You have consumed two of my scissors within the past 24 hours. One of which I have only had in my possession for less than 30 minutes.
Do you realize that I just had to go down the hall and ask my creepy stalker neighbor to borrow a pair? NOW I HAVE TO GO BACK AND FACE HIM AGAIN. Thanks a lot, pal. Thanks a lot.
Give me my scissors back. I would appreciate that. I have a lot of sewing projects on my hands and this is very uncool. You can swallow my socks, you can eat my comic books, and you can devour my clothes, but back off my fucking scissors.
I better be getting my down payment back whenever I move out. I’ll need to replace all this shit.
Sincerely,
Gina
P.S.
You smell like rotting cheese. Did you eat my quesadilla as well? If so, please admit to that so that I can apologize to my friends for accusing them of eating my food.
