Things started innocently enough: frozen pizza, ice cream tubs, Easy Mac, the occasional roll of cookie dough. Those were the days. I would kick back on my fuzzy little butt and devour whatever cliché slacker food you threw my way. But around the time Trish moved out, things took a nasty turn.

Yes, I know Trish’s name. Yes, I read your mail. Yes, I can read. Check your prejudice man.

Just last month you made a hot dog smoothie. I shudder at the very thought. And your chicken nuggets are shaped like Shrek. How old are these things? They haven’t promoted a Shrek movie since 2010. I checked.

I’ve noticed a pattern: as your life devolves further into chaos, you cram steadily more pigshit into your quickly-decaying soon-to-be-corpse. After Trish came to pick up her stuff, I found Cheetos mixed into your Ben and Jerry’s. When Olive Garden fired you, my roof was dripping with chocolate lasagna. And after your Ford Fiesta got repossessed, you started a mono-diet of nacho cheese-drizzled Lucky Charms. This is no way to live, even for a diminutive trash burglar like me.

Look, I may not have a developed prefrontal cortex or opposable thumbs, but I do know this: you cannot pickle a Snickers bar and call it a vegetable. Can you imagine my disgust when I found a damp, briny Snickers in your garbage can—which is also my house? I’ve been reduced to picking the gummy worms out of your 15 layer dip. It’s no fun to black out at Arby’s and wake up with Trish’s name tattooed on your lower back—but this isn’t a healthy response.

I thought my days of eating total bullshit were over when I moved to this neighborhood. I mean, you live on the good side of town. My parents were so proud when I scored a trash can in this ZIP code but now I’m losing respect in the mammalian rubbish community. I can barely hold my head up at the dump anymore.

Please don’t misunderstand me. I’m not here to body shame. I am one foot tall and my fur is matted with dried Capri Sun. But your adorable garbage neighbor recognizes a cry for help when he sees one.

Case in point: what’s your defense for these Sprite-Flavored Taquitos? Their tagline is “A Fun Way to Disrespect Your Body.” There’s no way that’s a real product. Do you have a 3-D printer in there? I know that Farmers Only rejected your dating profile, but there are more constructive ways to react.

Anyway, I’m actually here to say goodbye. I’ve moved to the Ortez family’s house three doors down. They shop at Whole Foods and subscribe to Blue Apron. This little refuse dweller is tits deep in Calabrian shrimp and fresh fettuccine. You probably never knew I existed but I’m going to miss watching you shovel heaps of actual horsecrap into your sad little mouth.

One final bit of advice: there’s no such thing as a “Meatloaf Mixologist.” That career just isn’t going to pan out.

Get help, man. You need it.


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