My personal version of hell. Photo: flickr/juicyrai
I stood in my striped boxer shorts in the kitchen, listening to my girlfriend’s latest accusation.
“Did you eat my yogurt?” she asked, rooting around in the refrigerator for her last container of Greek yogurt. It’s thick and packed with protein, and lord she loves her protein.
I wiped a white smudge from my lips. “No. Why would I do that?” Unlike George Washington, I can tell a lie. She fixed me with a withering gaze. “Because you never go to the grocery store,” she said. “That’s not true,” I replied. “Buying beer doesn’t count,” she said, gesturing to the fridge’s bottom shelf. It was crammed with dozens of bottles of delicious drunkenness. “Don’t touch my beer!” I said, grabbing a bottle of Brooklyn Brewery’s lovely, lemony Sorachi Ace. “Just buy groceries,” my girlfriend declared. Her tone indicated that it was a command, not a polite suggestion. Continue reading