I’m a Popcorn Bowl NOT a Throw-Up Bowl

Aw, here we go — do not get all defensive on me! I promise you’re not the victim here. Look, I know you’re not the only person who does this; honestly, it’d be so much easier if you were. I’d simply call Animal Control to sedate you like the crazed primate you are, but sadly, this is much bigger than the two of us. What we’re dealing with is a systemic issue propagated by Big Trash, a bunch of no-good, lazy hacks trying to push their municipality-appointed responsibilities off onto the little guy. But regardless of what their shameless propaganda might have you believe, I, as your popcorn bowl and your friend, am telling you to knock it off. I mean, c’mon, haven’t you ever heard the expression “Don’t puke where you eat?” Oh, is that ‘not really the phrase’? Screw you, Greg; I’m a popcorn bowl, not a bowl of idioms!

I’m not naive; I know no job is perfect. Believe you me, I’ve seen how corporate America has changed you, and it hasn’t been a lick for the better. You were once so young, passionate, and full of life, and now…no offense, but your hairline has morphed into more of a hair “dash,” and the check engine light of your marriage is blazing red. And yet, even on your worst day at KPMG, I’m betting no one has ever blown chunks in your face. Oh, they have? Well, that’s accounting for you. No one made you become a CPA. How many times have I said as you ugly cried to “Dead Poets Society” that teaching was your true calling? But sure, why listen to a popcorn bowl when you can throw up in it instead?

You know, the crazy thing is, I wanted this to work so badly that I probably could have gaslit myself into enduring this Sisyphean hellscape if only you applied this same devil-may-care attitude to your other household wares. But not once have you barfed in that bitchy crockpot or yaked in the crotchety Dutch oven. In the sick, twisted, food-vomit Venn diagram, I sit alone in the middle. Your intrusive thoughts are right, by the way: Nancy is too good for you. And you know what, so am I.

Sorry, I know the Nancy stuff is still pretty raw, and just because you hurt me doesn’t mean I have to hurt you back blah blah blah. I’ve just been having a really hard time lately, not that you cared to notice. This fun new bachelor diet of spoiled hot dogs and Coors Lights you’re doing has put me in a dark place. A few more days of this torture, and I might just give in to that sweet siren song beckoning me from the trash compactor…

Oh my God, I know you did not just call me dramatic! Wow, Nancy was so right about you. How we ever fit in this apartment with your ego taking up the whole place is beyond me. Greg, I really wanted to help you and let you down gently, but I’ve had enough. Nancy has signed the papers, and she’s taking me with her. Don’t look so shocked; you couldn’t possibly have thought those cheap bottles of wine and even cheaper hair plugs were gonna win her back.

Nancy is a popcorn-loving queen, nay a goddess, and she deserves to be with someone who appreciates her, someone who’s never eaten something called a ‘meat bazooka,’ and someone who knows that a toilet bowl is the only proper place to vomit. I can’t wait to get started on our new life together. As for you, here’s some free advice: the next time you inevitably go goblin-mode on four-day-old shrimp, go to the bathroom like a normal person, and maybe, just maybe, you won’t die alone.