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Your measly mustards. Your winking chutney. What am I supposed to do with you?

When the kids were little, I could swing the heavy door confidently and always find the makings for pancakes, an omelette,

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I know. But I’m lonely. Don’t judge me.

grilled cheese.

Now things go in you to die.

When I open you, you belch back at me like a frat boy with your ketchup and hot sauce and beer, and your hopeful canister of protein powder.

Everyone warns you about the empty nest. But what about the empty refrigerator?

Sincerely,

Kely  (how they spell my name at Starbucks)