He was not fine.
Day 2, he decided he was going to become a “grill master” even though we don’t own a grill. He stacked three baking sheets on top of each other, poured lighter fluid over them, and set off the smoke alarm for 40 minutes. The oven still smells like gasoline.
Then, he got really into “minimalist living” after a TikTok binge and threw away half our dishes, claiming “we only need one bowl each.” Unfortunately, he chose the salad bowl and the dog’s water dish. Everything else? Gone.
To feed himself, he bulk-ordered 20 frozen burritos and survived on those exclusively. By week two, he was eating them still partially frozen because “it’s basically a cold wrap.” His justification: “saves electricity.”
He stopped doing laundry entirely. Just rotated between two pairs of basketball shorts. By the time I got back, they had fused into what I can only describe as “denim-adjacent cardboard.” The dog started growling every time he sat down.
Last night, I walked in to find him shirtless, playing the recorder he ordered off Amazon because “Mozart slapped.” The living room smelled like burnt plastic and ranch dressing.
This morning, I woke up to him mumbling in his sleep: “I am the burrito.” The dog has relocated to the bathtub and won’t come out.
So now I’m sitting in a café, sipping coffee like it’s communion wine, with a dog who looks like he’s seen combat. The barista asked if I wanted almond milk. I just said no. My house is already nut-based chaos.
Hope your morning’s less… smoky.
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