Dear Old Fridge,
We’ve been together a long time, right? How long has it been, eh? 3 years? Maybe 4? Yeah, I remember when I first saw you. I walked into the house that the wife and I were totally going to rent regardless of how it looked inside because the landlord told us he didn’t need a deposit and there you were: standing there in the kitchen, empty of food and drinks, but so full of love to give. So full of hope and promise and shelving.
“Retro! Sweet!” I said, noting your mustard-yellow/sort-of-avocado-green exterior. I remember marveling at your separate little egg compartments, your roomy cheese compartment, and your little butter compartment that actually said “Margarine”. I almost kissed the landlord when he said that you came with the place, free of charge. My very own fridge, I thought, how cool is that! I’m gonna put SO much beer in you! You’d like that, huh? Oh yes you would!
But time has passed, buddy, and, well, I don’t know how to tell you this, but I think it’s time for you to leave. Every time I walk into the kitchen, there you are: lurking, looming at me as I try to make a sandwich. You’ve become distant and cold, my old companion, and not cold in the way you were before (which was the good kind of cold) but cold like my 9th-grade English teacher’s heart.
Also, you smell. I’m your friend and friends tell each other the truth, so take this to heart, err, motor. It’s awful. It’s the stench of a thousand pounds of bologna gone bad. It’s an odor that, I’m guessing, rivals Rush Limbaugh’s taint. It’s funky, brosef, and not like Kool and the Gang.
Clearly you can see that both the wife and I have moved on. That beautiful, spacious, non-leaking white box next to you ain’t a curio cabinet, my old friend. That’s your replacement. He’s just… well… better than you are. He’s got removable shelves that you can actually remove and put anywhere you want! He’s even got a water and ice dispenser on his front and… I don’t even have that hooked up yet, but damn that’s cool. I have always wanted one, since I was a little kid.
Plus he doesn’t leak. I can’t stress this plus enough. Many a morning have I stood before you looking for the orange juice and realized that your fridge-whizz is slowly soaking through the bottom of my slippers. WTF, dude.
Sure, I’ll always remember the good times we’ve had. I’d stick something room-temperature into you and then, later, much later, you’d have chilled it nicely. Sometimes you froze it completely solid, like that carton of eggs I bought a just before Christmas, but, hey, you know what? We all make mistakes. You remember that time I accidentally left that head of cauliflower in your crisper for, like, 27 weeks? Hahaha! Hey, maybe that’s why you smell so much…? Anyway, I digress.
The point is that lately you’ve begun to cast an oppressive shadow over the rest of the kitchen appliances. I can see by its demeanor that you’ve been taking out some of your foul mood on the microwave. It used to nuke up a burrito or a honey-dipped turkey-corndog with nary a whisper, but now it groans and pops with displeasure whenever I get near it. Heaven forbid I should touch the built-in popcorn setting and set off a Chernobyl-like meltdown. And I think the less said about the effects of your passive-agressiveness on the toaster, the better.
Maybe I’m to blame for your depression. Maybe it’s because I’ve been stacking pizza boxes on you lately, instead of putting pizza inside of you? Perhaps it’s the fact that I keep asking people if they need a fridge, right in front of you? Well, whatever it is, let’s try not to dwell on it. Let us not quibble over these things now. Not here, at the end.
In a little while, some crackhead from Craigslist is going to come and take you away because I told him I’d give him a case of Pabst. He’s promised me that he’ll give you a good home on his, uh, farm. You’ll be free to run around (What, your refrigerator doesn’t run? Well then get it fixed! LOLZ. THNX. I’ll be here all night!) and futiley attempt to chill things and he’s got a malfunctioning sub-zero freezer you can frolick with… it’ll be better for you. I promise. Would I lie to you, buddy? Huh? Who’s my brave little fridge, huh? Who’s my brave little fridge? YOU ARE! That’s right! YOU ARE!
In conclusion, try not to fuck up the paint on the door jam on your way out, and always remember that I’ll forever have a place for you in my heart. Just not in my kitchen. Or anywhere around my home.
Attached you’ll find some photos I took while you were sleeping.
Love and kisses,
Chris
P.S.: I’m gonna need that box of baking soda I left in you back, for the new fridge. I know, I know, I stuck it in you to try to fight your stench, but let’s be honest here: it’s not doing any good. You’re not fooling anyone: It’s just too powerful an odor. It’s some kind of super-stench that was engineered in a government lab somewhere and was smuggled into you at night. Jesus, my nose hairs are curling just thinking about it.
P.P.S.: And what the hell did you do to the linoleum!?!?!? Fuck me, that’s disgusting.
[tags]refrigerator, letter, craigslist, laura bush’s cold heart, rush limbaugh’s taint, horrible smell[/tags]
